


I'm Not Looking for Another Mistake

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Adult Education [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Explicit Sexual Content, Fatherhood, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, John and Sherlock are teachers, John and Sherlock's Wedding, Lestrade is a Principal, Lestrade's divorced, London, M/M, Mycroft Holmes gives great head, Mycroft is a lawyer, Mycroft may explode before that though, Sass, Sex, Sherlock is ridiculous, Sightseeing, Slow Burn, Teenagers, Tourists, When they finally fuck it will be glorious, cock blocking at its finest, explicit rating starts NOW, mystrade, no one ever expects that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Principal Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes, Esq. strike up an unusual friendship in the middle of a crisis at Jesup Arts Magnet Middle School--of course, the crisis is centered on Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, two teachers at JAMMS.  Gregory realizes that he not only enjoys Mycroft's company, but he looks forward to it, and more of it...in ways he never expected. Watch out England, Mycroft and his friennnnd Gregory are coming to the Watson-Holmes wedding</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sapere Aude

**Author's Note:**

> **Our beloved boys all belong to BBC/Hartswood.  
> **This is a sequel to You Teach Me, and I'll Teach You, but also stands alone as a Mystrade.  
> **Of course JW & SH are part of this--what kind of story would it be without them as foils?
> 
> The title "I'm Not Looking For Another Mistake" comes from my new favorite Ed Sheeran song, 'Don't'. I hope you'll take a sec to listen to it https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOYJXMfoBN8

              _Are you available for dinner this evening? –MH_

  _**Why do you sign your texts? I know who you are –GL (signed sarcastically)**_

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed from the back seat of his Mercedes S-550. Americans. Why did they have to be sarcastic all of the time. Ten years he’d lived in central Florida, and he still was unnerved by it. Americans swear too much. Show too much skin. Completely lack any sense of decorum. Any sense of their home country. Maybe it is time to move back to London. 

              ** _Is it because you’re so uptight? –GL_**

 **** Am I? Mycroft wondered, surrounded by the plush leather seating and the classical music on the surround sound stereo he’d had specially installed.

“Anthea. Am I uptight?” he asked his driver/secretary/gal Friday. There it is again, he said. Gal Friday. Who says that anymore?

              ** _Wait. Do people say ‘uptight’ anymore? –GL_**

 **** “I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t understand. Uptight?”

 “Yes. It’s slang. From the 1960s,” and he realized that Anthea wasn’t even alive in the 1960s. “Stuffy. Priggish. Unable to laugh.”

"No, Sir. I don’t believe that anyone would ever use that word to describe you,” she said, Mycroft staring at her long hair and shoulders as she kept her eyes on the road.

Damn American sarcasm.

Instead of deleting Gregory from his contact list—which he gave significant thought to doing—he asked again.

              _Before you injure your funny bone, are you available for dinner_ _tonight? I have something to discuss._           

His thumb clicked the ‘send’ button. Then he quickly typed,

              _I did not sign that text. I am living on the edge.—MH_

 _**Thank God you told me who you were this time. I didn’t know who**_ **_the last one was from.  Yes. Send me particulars. See you there.--_ ** **_Signed,       Gregory Lestrade, Principal, Jesup Arts Magnet Middle School_**

 **** Damn American sarcasm.

Who was he kidding, Mycroft thought dismally. Of course he was uptight, a stuffed shirt, a prig. Last week, Sherlock called him an old woman. All he had done was suggest mildly that the wedding John and Sherlock were planning was fit for a barbecue pit and beer keg crowd rather than their Mayfair and museum family. John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm to stop him before he could say more.

“Mycroft. Whose wedding is it?” John asked pointedly. “When it’s yours, you can have foie gras and ungodly expensive wine and napkins folded like swans. But we are having our wedding and reception at your Mum and Dad’s. And it will be homemade and comfortable.”

That’s when Sherlock said, “Don’t be such an old woman, Mycroft. It will be splendid. However, if you do not feel you will enjoy yourself, you can certainly send your regrets.” Sherlock’s smile seemed a bit too bright when he suggested Mycroft beg off.

Old woman? Ha. That was why he enjoyed spending time with Gregory—he made Mycroft laugh, sometimes even out loud. Mycroft smiled at that thought as he typed out the name of the restaurant and the address.

The sound of a hunting horn filled the car, and Mycroft read his new text.

            **_Looking forward to it. See you in 30m.—GL_**

 **** \---

 Greg arrived first at the restaurant, but that wasn’t unusual. They’d been out maybe a dozen times for lunch or dinner, and invariably Mycroft arrived later than he’d expected. As the Lake Jesup County Public School’s lawyer, he was often tied up at the office, answering personnel inquiries or assisting administrators like Greg with discipline issues. These days, principals couldn’t be too careful with how they approached student consequences.

Like at Greg’s school this past spring, when the kids launched a protest. He knew it was gonna start trouble, the kids writing NO H8 on their faces. But he couldn’t stop them. That freakin family would have sued him, the school, the school district and the ‘ineffectual lawyer’ faster than he could have filled out the suspension form for their son. Lestrade thought it prudent to follow the ineffectual lawyer’s advice. Which, as it turned out, was extremely effectual, especially when Lestrade realized one of his teachers, the incredibly annoying Sherlock Holmes was actually the lawyer’s brother. 

He should have recognized the family resemblance. Both of ‘em. Always right. 

Mycroft had made reservations for them at a microbrewery near the school. Strictly speaking, they didn’t take reservations. But Mycroft preferred a particular table in the back corner. Sometimes he was a little too Don Corleone—never having his back to the door, needing to see who was doing what with whom. No way he was ‘a simple country barrister,’ as Mycroft said every time Greg probed a little deeper. 

Heh heh. Probed. Oh, grow up Greg, he told himself.  Heh heh. 

They’d been here half a dozen times for lunch; Greg had chosen a different artisan house brew each time. Tonight he opted for a Mocha Stout on tap. He probably shouldn’t have a stout before dinner—damn thing was like a meal in a glass. It would ruin his appetite. But God only knew how long it would take Mycroft to get there. 

The beer flowed thick and sweet down his throat, settling in his stomach. With each pull, he tried to dissect the flavors like Mycroft would. Coffee. Another taste and wipe the foam. Molasses and (another sip) chocolate, which was unusual. And good. Just what he needed on a Thursday night.

Gotta love summer hours. Work a bit longer Monday through Thursday and have Friday off. He didn’t mind working longer—he always stayed late anyway. But with Friday off, he could enjoy this stout, and maybe even another without worrying about nursing a hangover while trying to negotiate student schedules for the fall. He felt the stress release his shoulders from its grip.

At the height of his school’s problems, Greg spent a growing amount of time with Mycroft. They met three or four evenings a week at one of their offices or for dinner, generating strategies for disseminating the information, handling parents and the media, negotiating with Sherlock and John. Brief meetings during the work day augmented by phone calls and texts turned into longer planning sessions over dinner. Eventually, after the details were worked out, they stayed longer, drinking beer or coffee, talking about their common interests.

He still thought them unlikely friends because fundamentally, they were very different. One time, just once, he gave in to his New England habit of shortening people’s names. “Mike,” he’d said. He didn’t get another word of his sentence out of his mouth before Holmes’ shoulders jammed back. Greg had no idea a person’s spine could **be** that straight. And the face. Stony. Rigid. Because Mycroft was much too British, he would bear the indignity of having his name shortened rather than correct Greg. 

But the principal cleared his throat and began his sentence again, this time using Mycroft’s proper name. His friend’s posture returned to merely ramrod, which was back to normal.

Greg should have known better. He really should have.  His ex-wife Jennifer refused to allow him to shorten her name. Always Jennifer. During their 15 year marriage, it was one of few points of contention they’d had. That and children. Lestrade had been clear with her that he _did not_ want children. She smiled in her way that meant there would be no fight (the way he would grow to hate) and ignored him. Ten months after the wedding, Anabelle was born. He desperately loved her. He would move the moon and sun for her. But he never forgot being tricked by Jennifer. By her unilateral decision to have a child. 

Actually, Anabelle was his only regret about divorcing Jennifer two years ago. Since then, Anabelle stayed with him every other week. It’s not that Jennifer wouldn’t allow him to see her on the off weeks, but with winter basketball and spring track plus homework, he managed maybe an hour at night if he were lucky on the weeks she was with him, let alone when she was at her mom’s.

No, Jennifer would never stop him from having time with Annabelle. That might cause an argument, and she would not tolerate that. They were on respectable terms. The divorce had been polite, just like their marriage. Neat. Tidy. No anger. No accusations. No passion. Not that he believed in brawling with your spouse, but sometimes couples needed to clear the air. But not her. Greg came home to a clean house, a pretty wife, dinner at 6, two mile power walk at 8p, and she went to bed at 10pm after her shower. Sex on Friday nights. Only. 

He was a faithful man. He never once cheated on her with anything but his hand and God knows he’d had offers. She was the perfect wife. Perfectly boring. For Greg, the divorce was a matter of life and death. How had he gotten from thinking about Mycroft to thinking about her? 

“You’ll have killed your appetite, Gregory.” 

Greg jumped in surprise at the voice. Friggin’ ninja sneaking up on him like that. 

“This is the first thing I’ve eaten today,” he said, pointing to the half-empty bar glasses. He welcomed Mycroft with a clap on the shoulder. “It’s great to see you!” 

Mycroft placed his own glass on the table, arranging his black, calf-leather briefcase and his matching umbrella on the empty seat between them, the curved leather handle resting over the back of the chair. Even though John and Sherlock laughed openly about the umbrella as an affectation, Greg had lived in Florida long enough to know that it was smart. If you don’t like the weather, wait fifteen minutes for it to change. In the meantime, a body could be drenched. 

“What are you drinking?” Greg asked, pointing to the light amber liquid in his glass.

“Sapere Aude. A house brew,” Mycroft answered. The name of the beer sounded like a Latin class response.

“I think I had too much of mine,” Greg laughed. “Because that seems like something you’d yell in court! What’s in it?”

“Not in court, but at…the Bar,” Mycroft quipped. Greg groaned audibly. “In translation, it means ‘Dare to know.’ It has sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds and nectar.”  

“That’s not a beer,” Greg responded indignantly pointing to Mycroft’s glass. “It’s squirrel food! _This_ is a real man’s beer.” He grunted several times to prove his point. “Here. Lemme taste that mess.” He reached out for Mycroft’s beer. 

Mycroft took a small sip, turning his head to keep the glass out of reach. Greg leaned across the table, across Mycroft, and grabbed it from his hand. 

He made a production out of testing the prissy Sapere Aude. Fuck if it wasn’t good. Really good, and he said so. Mycroft chuckled (once again he was right) and Greg laughed out loud at his beer snobbery. 

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut trying to ward off tears from suppressing his own laughter. He completely enjoyed Gregory’s laugh. It flowed easily, whether he was laughing at something someone had said or at something he himself had done. Clearly, he had no qualms about trying to entertain Mycroft.

“Are you quite done with my drink?”

“Possibly.  Although, if you don’t want it…”

“No!” Mycroft said over him to the server who was picking up Greg's empty glass. Instead, he explained in detail how he would like his meal prepared.

Greg rolled his eyes at the young woman taking their order. She flirted freely, leaning over Greg’s shoulder pointing out items on the menu, her breasts pressed against his back. When she asked him to repeat part of the order, she flipped her sun bleached hair over one shoulder to perfectly frame her face.   

Mycroft tried to keep his irritation in check, but for God’s sake he’s old enough to be her father. Take the order and go. He was certain his ears cheeks and ears were red. 

Greg teased, suggesting a glass of the Nuts and Nectar, as he called it; Mycroft jumped in. “My friend won’t be having any more.”

“Oh,” she sounded disappointed. “You’re _friends_.” She finished recording their order and headed for the kitchen. 

Greg looked at Mycroft, his forehead lined with confusion. “Why’d she say it like that?”

“Like what?” Mycroft refused to look at him, instead scrolling through emails on his phone. 

“Friennnnnds.” Greg exaggerated the word. 

Mycroft answered without looking at Greg. “I believe that _she_ believes that you and I are lovers.” 

“What? Why would she…” The beer was not helping Greg make sense of this. “You and me? Us?” 

Mycroft wasn’t going to help this conversation along. Gregory had to realize for himself. Mycroft’s stomach lurched in a way it hadn’t since University. This certainly was _not_ how he had hoped to approach Gregory. Mycroft studied his email, reading months-old notes in an effort to provide his friend space to think. 

He and Mycroft boyfriends. Lovers. Really? Greg considered it. He enjoyed spending time with Mycroft and honestly saw him more times in 3 months than anyone else over the two years.  And he always seemed to be touching Mycroft. Holding handshakes longer than strictly necessary. Often as they said good bye, Greg found himself clapping his hand on Mycroft's shoulder and rubbing circles. Greg was never demonstrative with women, let alone men. But something about Mycroft made him feel respected and appreciated. Two things he would never have said about Jennifer. 

Greg heard the gossip at district administrator meetings. He knew people described Mycroft as holier than thou. A know it all. They thought _he_ thought he was better than all of them. But that wasn’t him at all. Yes, Mycroft Holmes was ridiculously intelligent—even more so than his brother, but Greg would never say that to Sherlock. Well versed on every possible subject, whether they spoke history or current events. 

But he was also kind. Around him, Greg felt comfortable and welcome. Mycroft had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that made Greg laugh. He wasn’t afraid to fight for what he believed in. Passionate about the right issues. He saw it in Mycroft’s posture and gestures. And in his eyes. Greg had seen him argue people into submission, beating them with their own words. Mycroft had done it to him about the NO H8 campaign. He had been relentless because Greg wouldn’t listen. At one point, Greg’s hand curled into a fist before he caught himself. Ultimately, Mycroft had been right. 

And sometimes, when they argued, he knew exactly what Mycroft would be like in bed. Rough and gentle and in your face and demanding and giving. Not gonna lie. Lately, more than one of his wanks had been thinking about that. About him. And removing that damn 3-piece suit. 

Greg had changed since the divorce two years ago. He’d changed a great deal more in the past three months. The times he’d been with Sherlock and John outside of school, seeing the depth of their feelings, the passion. How in love they were. It made him rethink his ambivalence about the gay marriage debate. Shit. He and Jennifer had _never_ shared that heat, not even at the start, but someone let _them_ get married. 

Suddenly, nothing was more important than touching Mycroft. Grazing his thumb over the man’s lips, to see if they were as soft as they looked. The bristles on his chin, to feel them scrape lightly against his own cheek. To taste his tongue… 

Greg’s tongue wet his lips, mirroring what he was thinking.

He realized Mycroft had stopped talking. Fuck! He drew in a breath and looked around to make sure he hadn’t missed something big. 

“You were quite lost in thought,” Mycroft said, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Anything of interest?” 

That fucking Holmes skill of deducing the shit out of things. Greg took a long pull on what little beer he had left to give him time to generate a convincing lie. He realized Mycroft probably already knew. And that was good. 

“Hopefully,” Greg said simply without elaboration, as the server brought their dinners. But not tonight. Not when his guard was lowered because of the beer. If he were going to make this leap, he would be clear-headed with no excuses if things went poorly.

Several times during their meal, Mycroft broached a topic, but immediately changed his mind. His awkward attempts to redirect the conversation fooled neither of them.

“Mycroft,” Greg finally blurted out. “Whatever it is, just say it. After all, we are friennnnnds.” He tried to make Mycroft relax and laugh at his impersonation of the server. 

Mycroft took a deep breath, folded his hands and looked directly at Gregory. Bull by the horns and all that. 

“As you well know, my brother and his fiancé are celebrating their nuptials in England in two weeks.” Gregory nodded. The third week in June at the Holmes parents’ house. Between Molly Hooper and Mycroft, Greg knew most of the details. 

“To my brother’s dismay, etiquette dictates that I be invited,” Mycroft smiled. “With a guest.” 

Yes of course. In a typical family, Mycroft would likely be Sherlock’s best man. He already knew that John had asked Molly to stand with him. He had no idea if Sherlock would bow to convention.

“…if you would care to?” Mycroft’s eyes searched Greg’s expression for an answer. Revulsion? Horror? What was that look?  Why couldn’t Mycroft read it? 

“I’m so sorry Mycroft. I think the week and the beer caught up with me,” Greg’s face flushed. “I missed what you said.” 

“Would you care to accompany me to my brother’s wedding? I haven’t ascertained the dress code, but it seems that street attire will be appropriate,” he frowned in distaste. 

Seize the day, Greg. Carpe diem.

“You’re asking me to go with you? But it’s a family thing. Are you sure?” 

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. I would quite enjoy spending the time with you and showing you around my country.” 

Seize the day, Greg. 

“That sounds incredible. I’ve never been to England.” He smiled broadly, not only at the thought of a vacation, but also of spending it with his friend. 

Mycroft told Gregory about the city, his eyes sparkling in excitement. “I thought, perhaps, we could spend some time exploring the London, possibly, if there’s time, Paris…” He told Greg about the French cafes and the Louvre and the Tower of London and the tiny bookstores tucked into side streets. 

As Mycroft animatedly described the midnight sky from the top of the Eiffel tower, his hand collided with his half-full bar glass almost knocking it into Greg’s plate. 

With a baseball infielder’s quick reflexes, Greg reached for the glass before it poured over his meal. 

With a champion squash player’s quick reflexes, Mycroft reached for the glass before it poured over Greg’s meal. 

Their hands met on the glass, staving off a flood of beer. 

Neither moved, unsure whether to revel in the warmth of the other’s hand, or to ignore it and pull away. 

Carpe diem, Greg. 

He released the glass and Mycroft’s hand, making sure nothing would spill. Greg already missed the warmth and strength of Mycroft’s grasp. 

Mycroft also released the glass, but not before taking a long sip. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin, then returned it to his lap. He took an inordinate amount of time tidying the napkin, laying it just so on his lap, eyes never leaving the cloth. 

Carpe diem, Greg. No. Wait. Dare to know.

He slowly reached across the table, sliding his hand down Mycroft’s arm and slipping it into Mycroft’s. The pads of his fingers and his palm were as soft as Greg had imagined. Hoped. 

“Brilliant,” Greg laughed, having stolen one of John Watson’s phrases. “Going to England will be brilliant.” 

Greg brought their twined hands to the table and he stroked the back of Mycroft’s hand with his thumb as they talked about the trip.

Yes. Sapere Aude.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. By the Light of the Silvery Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft invites John and Sherlock over to his home, so he can tell them about the growing relationship between him and Gregory. Sherlock is ridiculously self absorbed and tactless. But when John and Sherlock leave, Greg has plans to show Mycroft exactly how HE feels about their new relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Forgive me for the gratuitous t-shirt reference. I couldn't help myself.   
> **221btls, I'm one step closer to bringing you to the Mystrade side. We have cookies. (and whipped cream). World's best beta.

“Mycroft! Stop dithering!”  
   
That stopped Mycroft, feather duster hovering over a teak patio chair.   
   
“Dithering?” he mocked Gregory’s word choice. “Are you 80 years old now?”  
   
“Just. Stop dusting. No one dusts outdoor furniture.” Greg grabbed the duster away from Mycroft and dropped it on to the table. 

“Not on the linen!” Mycroft snatched it from the damask table cloth and laid it on one of the striped chair cushions. Concerned that errant dust had landed on one of the Wedgwood plates, he picked it up and turned toward the house to exchange it.   
   
“And that’s another thing--” Greg said, gently removing the plate from Mycroft’s hand. “It’s a barbecue. We don’t need linen table cloths or china.”  
   
He returned the dish to its place and took Mycroft’s hands in his. “What are you worried about? He’s your brother. He’ll be fine, and you know that John will make him behave.” 

Greg held Mycroft’s gaze and wouldn’t let him break it. 

“Have you  ** _met_**  my brother, Gregory?” Mycroft snarked.   
   
“Maybe once or twice." He raised Mycroft’s hands to his mouth and kissed them. .  
   
Mycroft shook his head and laughed. “You of all people know how he can be. It’s just that he’s never been to my home, and I would like to make the best impression on him that I am able.” Greg’s eyes opened wide, surprised that Sherlock hadn’t been invited in the 5 years he’d lived near his brother.  
   
“You will impress him. And they'll be okay with _us_. Or they won’t. But either way, it doesn’t impact _us_. Who we are.” Greg drew him in closer, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist.   
   
“And we’re good.” Mycroft rested his forehead on Greg’s.  
   
“ _Very_  good,” Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s face, wanting—no, _needing_ to finally kiss him. “You know, we haven’t been alone since the restaurant the other night. Holding your hand is nice, but I was hoping, maybe, I could kiss you--”

“Yes," Mycroft whispered, tilting his head just slightly. He breathed in Greg’s scent—light and fresh mixed with the slightest smoke from the grill. Intoxicating.  
 

Greg gazed at Mycroft's elegant face, so beautiful. So... 

He closed his eyes and leaned in, ready to feel Mycroft's lips on his...

“Oi! Sherlock! They’re back here!” John Watson called as he pushed open the backyard gate. BingBongBingBongBingBong rang the front door bell insistently. 

Mycroft and Greg jumped apart, almost knocking noses in their haste to avoid being seen. Greg’s heart jumped into his throat. Shit, he wanted to kiss Mycroft so badly. Crap timing.  
   
Mycroft smiled wistfully at Greg and headed toward the front door. Not waiting for an answer, Sherlock had already barged in. When the brothers met in the kitchen, Sherlock extended his hand while Mycroft opened his arms, each deciding against it at the last minute. Mycroft took Sherlock by the elbow and led him outside.   
   
John stood by the grill while Greg flipped the steaks. Of course Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t have a simple gas grill on a deck. He had devoted his backyard to entertaining. A rough-hewn timber roofed section of the patio provided cover for the outdoor kitchen and quarry stone wood-burning stove. The patio encircled an in-ground pool, water streaming from falls in the corners. Some evening, he would get Mycroft into that pool, near one of the waterfalls, and in this seclusion, he would—

"Can I grab a beer, too?” John asked, reaching into the miniature refrigerator. He offered one to Sherlock who looked puzzled and declined.  
   
“No denying they’re brothers,” Greg laughed as he handed John the bottle opener. “One wearing a Savile Row suit and the other using linen and china at a barbecue.” He shook his head as they laughed.     
   
Mycroft and Sherlock shot Greg the same expression of ridicule. “Definitely brothers,” John laughed.  
   
Sherlock wrested his elbow from his brother’s hand and pulled John aside. “Something is odd. Why is Lestrade here?”  
   
John brought his head closer to Sherlock’s ear and looked over his shoulder. Both Mycroft and Greg were out of earshot.

“I believe Lestrade is here to _visit_ Mycroft,” he said tactfully.   
   
“Visit Mycroft? Why would he visit Mycroft?” Sherlock’s brain, which most often moved at the speed of a computer processor sometimes slogged through mud.  
   
“Keep your voice down!” John shushed Sherlock. “I think they’re friends.”  
   
“Nonsense. Mycroft doesn’t have friends.”  
   
“Sherlock. You know. Friennnnds.”  
   
“Indeed, brother,” Mycroft agreed as John and Sherlock sprung apart. “Gregory and I are friends.”  
   
“Who is Gregory, and why did you change the subject,” Sherlock snarked. “We were talking about you and Lestrade. Why is he here?”  
   
“He is here because I invited him.” How had Mycroft forgotten that Sherlock could be frustratingly dense? “And his name is Gregory.”  
    
Greg set a platter of thick steaks into the center of the table and said, “Gentlemen, dinner is served.” Mycroft placed a pitcher of raspberry lemonade on the table and sat across from Greg.   
   
John stared at the table, the food Mycroft had prepared, the impressive yard. “Mycroft, this is, it’s brilliant.”   
  
“Yes, Mycroft. This is _quite_ brilliant,” Sherlock said suspiciously. “What do you want.”  
   
“Sherlock!” John and Greg yelled in shock.   
   
“Well, I’m not wrong,” Sherlock defended himself. “He’s only kind when he wants something.”  
   
“Yes, brother mine. You have caught me.” Mycroft pulled his chair closer to the table and tucked a napkin on his lap. “I am guilty of wanting to become reacquainted with my brother.” He looked across the table at Sherlock. “You and Dr. Watson have endured a great deal this spring, and I thought it time that we put these petty feuds behind us and become the brothers Mummy would want us to be.”  
   
Sherlock grumbled something that sounded vaguely rude, but thought better of continuing as John kicked his shin under the table. With classical music floating down from hidden speakers and rich food in front of them, the four men ate in quiet comfort.  
   
At least until Sherlock’s shin stopped hurting.   
   
Sherlock placed his knife and fork on his plate and interrupted John and Greg’s conversation about England’s chances in the World Cup.  
   
“Football, Lestrade,” Sherlock corrected the word soccer absentmindedly, focused on something more important.   
   
His eyes narrowed as he looked from his brother’s smiling face to Lestrade’s. “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”  
   
This time, Mycroft joined John and Greg. “Sherlock!”    
   
“There is nothing duplicitous, Sherlock,” Mycroft said as Greg focused on his meal. “I wanted to spend time with you and John before your blessed day. Actually I…”  
   
“There it is!” Sherlock said, throwing his hands up in the air. John tried to warn him off with a death stare, which Sherlock ignored.  
   
“Actually,” Mycroft repeated, ignoring Sherlock’s childishness. “I wanted to offer to provide catering for your reception, with you and John choosing everything, of course. Or, if you prefer, I would be happy to place my home in Greece at your disposal for your honeymoon.”  
   
“That is too generous!” John said, shocked.  
   
“You have a home in Greece?” Greg said, with interest.  
   
“----“ Sherlock began to speak, but John cut him off.   
   
“Thank you very much,” John answered for Sherlock. “Both are incredible offers.”  
   
“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said over John.  
   
“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed. “You should have that on a t shirt. It’s not complicated, and it’s not a trick. I should like to do something for your and your betrothed. We live in the same county, mere miles from each other. Perhaps, we can be who we once were.”  
   
John reached across the table and slid his hand into Sherlock’s. The slight squeeze said not only ‘I love you’ but also ‘stop being a giant twat to your brother.’  
   
“Thank you Mycroft. I—I would like that a great deal,” Sherlock cleared his throat and looked at his brother.  
   
As they finished their meal, Greg asked John and Sherlock about their plans for the ceremony. 

“It will be small,” John said. “Molly Hooper, of course. She’ll be my Best Woman. But my mum and da are gone. My sister hasn’t answered. That’s all I have. Have you finished your list?” he asked, turning to Sherlock.  
   
“Obviously Mummy and Father, since it will be at their cottage,” Sherlock said, ticking off people on his fingers. “Our Grandmother. Mycroft and a plus one, although I can’t imagine he has anyone to bring.”   
   
John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew he would never change Sherlock and God knows he wouldn’t want to because this is the man he fell in love with but Christ. Could he show some tact occasionally, especially to their host?  
   
“As you mention it,” Mycroft hesitated. “I  _would_  like to bring someone.”  
   
“Great!” John said.  
   
“You?!” Sherlock crowed. “Who?”  
   
Greg took Mycroft’s hand and said, “He’ll be bringing me.”  
   
The only sound came from tree frogs in the background.  
   
“Brilliant!” John said.  
   
“I still don’t understand,” Sherlock said, brows furrowed, trying to work through the confusion.  
   
“And there’s the back of the t shirt,” Mycroft sighed. “Over the past few months, Greg and I have developed a friendship that has become somethingmuch—more.”  
   
Sherlock sat back, stunned. And silent. Which was much more disturbing than the fact that it took him so long to understand.  
   
“You and Gavin?”  
   
“Greg,” Lestrade corrected.  
   
“How?”   
   
“Must I draw you a picture?” Mycroft asked derisively.   
   
“No. _God_ no,” John said. “I’ll fill in the blanks later.”   
   
Greg rose to retrieve another beer for him and John as Mycroft cleared the table for dessert.  
   
“Sherlock, stop being a giant ass,” John whispered angrily. “Mycroft has been extremely kind, making us this dinner and offering us a honeymoon.”  
   
“But--”  
   
“No,” John cut him off and stared Sherlock down. “You’re an idiot. They’re boyfriends. Leave them alone. We—of all people—know how hard it is to explain. They shouldn’t have to.”  
   
Inside the house, Mycroft readied the tea and dessert. He stared at the boiling electric kettle, his shoulders slumped.   
   
“Sherlock can be a real ass. Are you okay?” Greg asked, coming up behind him. He rubbed small circles on Mycroft’s back.   
   
Mycroft leaned into Greg’s touch with the smallest sigh. “Yes. I know he’s ridiculous, but he’s my brother. I need to try. Too much time has gone by.”  
   
“You’re a good person,” Greg said, turning Mycroft toward him. His thigh rested in between Mycroft’s legs.  
   
“Mmmm,” Greg said. “Let’s ditch them, and we can--” He leaned in to steal their first kiss, knowing Mycroft wanted him to.

“—think so, Sherlock. Not now anyway,” John said as he and Sherlock came into the kitchen with more bowls and plates from the table.  
   
Mycroft and Greg sprung apart. Fuck it all.  
   
“Oh, God, we’re sorry, so…” John said, realizing what he’d interrupted.  
  
“Sorry!” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he dragged John back out to the patio. “I told you we should just leave the dishes, but you said we should be considerate!”   
   
Mycroft filled the tea pot and set the tray while Greg carried a decadent strawberry shortcake to the table.  
   
“You are in for a treat, John,” Sherlock said, his mood conciliatory. “Mycroft mastered homemade whipped cream one summer when he was back from school, and we had it on everything that year. It’s gorgeous.” To underscore his point, he dragged his finger between the layers, capturing some of the cream. He offered it to John, who eagerly sucked it clean.  
   
Sherlock moaned, so small but so full of desire. Greg swallowed hard and gazed at Mycroft.  
   
Mycroft gasped. John was torn between embarrassment and need. Greg cleared his throat and rearranged himself in his seat.  
   
“Yes, I do quite agree. Delicious,” John’s voice trembled when he finally formed a sentence.  
   
As fast as respectably possible after dessert, John and Sherlock bid their hosts good-night. It was barely 8:30 pm.  
   
Greg brought the remaining dishes to the kitchen sink, where Mycroft’s hands were immersed in sudsy dishwater. “That was awkward. I wonder why they left so suddenly.” He laughed as he tried to sound innocent.   
   
“My brother and his libido are apparently making up for lost time,” Mycroft said as he hand-washed the delicate china teapot.  
   
“That sounds good to me.” Greg looped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, pressing into his back. Mycroft went still, holding onto the teacup and the sponge.  
   
Shit! Too far. I’ve pushed too far. Greg panicked until Mycroft sighed. “Please. Don’t stop.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and deep.   
   
He drew his lips across Mycroft's neck, caressing but not kissing. Greg felt the shiver in Mycroft’s body. He knew what was happening to his  _own_  body, his own desire painfully obvious.  
   
With his hands on Mycroft’s hips, Greg slowly turned him. He wasn’t the only one, then. When Mycroft pulled him in closer, his hard length pressed against Greg’s thigh felt more right than anything in 15 years of marriage. At that moment, he needed all of Mycroft. Every breath. Every inch.   
   
Greg had never kissed a man before. He’d expected it to feel wrong to press his body against another and not feel the lush swell of breasts or soft lips and fragrant cheeks when they kissed. Greg brushed his thumb over Mycroft’s jaw. He rather liked the way the beard’s new growth felt.  
   
“There’s no one here to interrupt us now.” Mycroft slowly closed the distance between them, his wet hands leaving prints on Greg’s back as he pulled him closer.

“I've wanted to kiss you all night,” Greg whispered. ‘I’m not waiting any more.”

Slowly, their lips met. Soft. Gentle at first, barely touching. Then Mycroft’s lips parted and Greg felt the tentative tip of a tongue asking for entrance. He opened his and gave his permission eagerly.   
   
Their hesitation evaporated with their desire. Tongues searched and twined. Their hands touched everywhere, hair, neck, shoulders, ass, back. Over clothes but not under. Greg shifted, and their cocks pressed against each other. Mycroft mewled, low and needy. It had been months, years, forever, since anyone’s body had touched his. No. They should take this slow. Slow _er_. He shifted to separate them, but Greg whimpered and pulled him back, pressing together again.   
   
“I want you so much,” Greg whispered, leaning his forehead against Mycroft’s when their mouths broke apart. Mycroft nodded, his eyes closed and breathing unsteadily.  
   
“So much,” Mycroft repeated. Greg was beautiful, so beautiful in the dim, silver moonlight that flowed through the windows.  
   
Greg’s fingers traced Mycroft’s body down his neck, over his nipples pushing through the sky blue Lacoste. He faltered as he reached the belt buckle, then dragged his palm over Mycroft’s cock, already straining against the cotton shorts.  
   
‘Oh God, If you don’t stop, I’m going to come now.’ Mycroft arched his hips away from Greg’s hand, already missing the heat of his touch. Greg pulled back, trying to determine why Mycroft stopped, what he had done wrong.   
   
Mycroft leaned back in to capture Greg’s lips, to nip at that sensitive spot he’d found just under Greg’s earlobe. “Nothing, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Bad boy, he pressed against Greg again, to hear him whimper. “But we’re not teenagers. We don’t need to do this in the kitchen when I have an entire house.”  
   
“Nothing wrong with acting like teenagers. I feel like one,” Greg sighed, struggling to keep his hands off Mycroft’s body and giving in to stroke his cheek.  
   
Mycroft leaned in. So very long since someone had touched him like this. But he needed to slow this down and his back did ache from the push of the counter’s edge.   
   
You know what. Fuck it. Fuck ‘slow.’   
   
Mycroft pulled Greg back, the press of their bodies perfectly placed. In one fluid movement, Greg was the one leaning against the counter, Mycroft in front of him. His warm breath fluttered against Greg’s neck. Maybe being a teenager again wouldn’t be bad, he thought has he nipped and sucked at the base of Greg’s neck, leaving a mark. Mine. You’re mine, it said.  
   
Greg’s hands roamed his body, lingering on the back of his neck, stroking, twining his fingers in Mycroft’s trimmed hair. He desperately wanted to touch him lower, his ass. His cock. Feel that warm silk. To make him come. On him. In him.   
   
Mycroft’s mouth disappeared from Greg’s throat. He wanted to whine ‘come back, I miss your lips,’ until realized where Mycroft was.   
   
He’d slipped down to his knees, his fingers fumbling with Greg’s belt, then zipper. Greg desperately wanted to watch, but his eyes wouldn’t, couldn’t stay opened.  
   
Mycroft’s soft hands slid down Greg’s rounded ass, kneading before working the shorts and briefs down. Careful over the cock, thicker than he thought it might be. Beautiful. That will hurt but… Focus. Concentrate. He slid the clothes down and tapped Greg’s ankle so he could pull the shorts off.   
   
Greg hands stuttered, unsure what to do. A flush crept over face and neck. What the hell. This wasn’t his first blow job. Why was he acting like this, like a kid. He--   
   
Mycroft’s full attention now was on Greg’s cock. “Beautiful,” he said. “You are so beautiful. May I?” God, no one had ever asked permission before.  
   
Greg nodded. “Are you sure? You don’t have to--”  
   
“Oh God, yes. Yes I’m sure.” Mycroft wrapped his fist around the base of Greg’s erection and nuzzled, brushing his nose and lips on the warm skin and tight curls.    
   
Greg’s knees gave out at the sheer want of it. “Mycroft…”  
   
“Shhhh. Lean against the counter. You’ll be good.” His tongue flicked above his hand, and then dragged up to the tip, barely touching the crown before he swirled around the head. Over the slit, tasting the dabs of precome, ready for him.    
   
The warm breath, the touch, the thick drag and light flick. Greg’s head tilted back; holding it upright took too much concentration that he needed to hold back his orgasm. Or he would embarrass himself and come at that moment.  
   
In the next moment, Mycroft took the entire length into his mouth, flattening his tongue as he closed his lips around the shaft and sucked.   
   
Greg’s moans and pleading were dangerous to Mycroft’s own erection. He fumbled with his left hand at his own zip and pulled himself free. The beads of precome on his own tip were lubrication enough. He tugged himself in time with his bobbing on Greg’s cock. It wouldn’t be long at all. And God, he wanted this more than anything except possibly having Greg inside him. His breathing hitched at the thought of being inside Greg.  
   
Greg’s hand that had rested on Mycroft’s neck, rubbing his hair, tapped him. “Baby, I can’t hold out. Pull off so I can...”  
   
Mycroft, his mouth still wrapped around Greg’s thickness, sucked harder as he shook his head ‘no’. No, I won’t let you finish with your hand. I want every drop of you.   
   
By the time Greg understood, it was too late. His orgasm crashed over him and pulled him under. He tumbled in the pleasure until he found himself where he had started, lost in Mycroft’s eyes and lips. Mycroft pulled off and tidied his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood up, legs unsteady, cock aching, unfinished.  
   
Greg had never tasted himself in another person’s mouth. Jennifer was the first to give him a blow job, and she insisted that he finish himself. And now, he was kissing Mycroft, tongues tangled, tasting his own come and loving that Mycroft did that to him. For him.   
   
Greg slid his hand down Mycroft’s belly to his cock. He’d never touched a man, didn’t know what to do. Idiot, he thought. You have and you do.

He stroked his fist up Mycroft’s shaft and twisted over the leaking head, allowing muscle memory to take over, to do to Mycroft what he liked on himself. He listened to Mycroft’s breathing, labored, hitched, faster, deeper.

“Gregory,” was all he managed before he crested with one final stroke. He pulsed over Greg’s fist and shirt.   
   
“I’m so sorry about--” he said into Greg’s neck. He should have said something, had Greg remove his hand, gotten a tea towel…“S’ok. Shhhh. It washes out. Shhh.” His dry hand stroked Mycroft’s neck and the back of his head.

Mycroft slowly lifted his head to look at Gregory. He’d behaved ridiculously, like a school boy. He should know better.   
   
Greg kissed Mycroft’s cheek. The corner of his mouth. His lips. Soft. So soft. How could he have thought he would miss a female’s touch. “That was beautiful. Thank you,” Greg said.   
   
“It was nothing--”  
   
“Don’t say that,”Greg murmured and kissed him more deeply than before. “You let me in. You let me touch you and bring you to orgasm. I’ve never done that. It was beautiful.”  
   
Mycroft smiled falteringly and broke away to wet a tea towel for Greg’s hand. Greg wiped his shirt and washed his hands.

“Stay tonight?” Mycroft asked. “You can share my bed or I have several guest rooms…”

Greg pulled out his iPhone. “I can’t.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push…” Mycroft was relieved the kitchen was dark enough that Greg couldn’t see the red flush on his face.

“I would love to, Mycroft. And I will,” Greg caught him up in a hug. Mycroft laughed as the cold wet spot on Greg’s shirt front tickled his belly. “But it’s my week for Anabelle, and I’m already late.” He looked Mycroft in the eyes, needing him to know it was the truth. “But when she goes back to her mom’s…”

“You are always welcome here, Gregory.” Mycroft  _did_ understand about Anabelle. “And there’s always our trip to London. Wait until you see the plans I’ve made.” Mycroft blinked innocently—in a way that implied there was nothing innocent about it.

And that smile. Greg knew from the past few months that when Mycroft gave him  _that_ smile, he was in for trouble. 

And that made Greg smile as he drove to pick up Anabelle.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gratefully accept your comments like manna from heaven. but you know, no pressure.


	3. SNAFU: Situation Normal, All F*d Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is going to show Greg a good time--not that kind of good time! He's going to show Greg how the Upper Class lives on the flight to London. But as the chapter title says...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge thanks to editminion.com who showed me the error of my adverbial ways.   
> and to 221btls, my friend and cohort in adverbial crime  
> and Neda, who told me about Gatwick.
> 
> Any errors about Gatwick or Virgin Atlantic are mine alone. And I apologize sincerely. Feel free to message me and I'll make corrections. Also, I intend no disrespect toward Virgin Atlantic, Gatwick, or anyone else I may have inadvertently (#damnAdverbs) disparaged.

“OhmygodimsosorryMycroft,” Greg said as he jumped out of the barely stopped Mercedes. “There’s only an hour til the plane leaves and I know we’re gonna miss it and it’s so my fault…” 

Mycroft grasped Greg’s shoulders and drew him into a kiss. Greg needed to tell him they didn’t have time for this nonsense. They had to check in, go through security, get to the…Mycroft’s hand slid up Greg’s back and caressed the nape of his neck. At the same time, Mycroft’s tongue stroked Greg’s top lip, and Greg was lost to the moment. No plane existed. No urgency mattered. Just this. Now. No, don’t stop your lips. Your tongue. Your touch. 

“We should think about the plane,” Mycroft whispered in Greg’s ear, kissing the sweet spot below the lobe. 

What plane, Greg thought.

“I’ve booked us on a Virgin America flight,” Mycroft said as he waved away Anthea in the Mercedes. His hand on the small of Greg’s back, he guided Greg through the automatic doors into Terminal B. “Typically we would be able to expedite our departure with drive through check-in, but I thought it would be more prudent to meet here, since you were with Anabelle this afternoon.   
   
“That was part of the problem. Jennifer picked up Anabelle an hour late, and then we ran into rush hour traffic on I-4 and the 408…”

“Don’t think twice about it. As Upper Class passengers, we are granted certain privileges, such as a private security channel and expedited baggage check-in. We have more than enough time.”  
   
“Upper Class?” Gregory repeated, in case he misheard.   
   
“Obviously,” Mycroft sniffed at the mere thought of flying anything else. “As a citizen of the crown, I have certain--responsibilities to Queen and country. Occasionally, I am called upon to provide my expertise on certain situations.”  
   
“I’m not sure I understood anything you just said,” Greg laughed as they approached the Virgin-Atlantic Priority check-in counter. “You sound like James Bond.”  
   
“Oh usually it’s not as exciting as that.” Mycroft dodged an actual answer by retrieving his flight information from inside his suit jacket and flashing his most charming smile at the woman behind the counter.  
   
“Mr. Mycroft Holmes and Mr. Gregory Lestrade to check in for the 17:35 pm flight to Gatwick.” He smiled at Gregory next to him, who looked duly impressed.   
   
“Once we check in, we’ll pass through the private security gate, and if you like, we may spend the remaining time in the lounge.” Mycroft reveled in showing off to Gregory. He smiled at his boyfriend (must find a better title than that. That’s a rubbish thing to call your boyfriend when you’re 40ish). Speed through check in, head to the Clubhouse for a quick drink, possibly a snog or more, then get settled into the luxurious appointments of Upper Class.   
   
“Sir?” the woman in the bright red Virgin America uniform drew Mycroft’s attention away from Gregory. “Your name again?”  
   
“Mycroft Holmes. H-o-l-m-e-s.” He looked to Gregory with a ‘nothing to worry about--these things happen’ expression.  
   
“Mr. Holmes, is it possible the reservations are under another name?” She offered him a well-rehearsed smile, trying to stave off a passenger tantrum.  
   
“Lestrade?” He spelled it for her. Not there either. He checked his watch, and then pulled the phone from his suit pocket and scrolled through his emails.  
   
“I’m sorry, Sir. I do not have a reservation for either name.” Another smile, more weary this time. Too close to the end of her day.  
   
“Impossible,” Mycroft said through tight lips, appearing calm even as his fingers tapped on the cane handle of his umbrella. He produced a confirmation email for her to no avail. Nothing in the computer. Greg saw clearly how tight the muscles in Mycroft’s neck were, the clenched jaw. He’d never seen Mycroft like this and had no idea where this might go.  
   
An intelligent woman, she immediately phoned someone higher up in Passenger Services.  “I’m quite certain that we will have this resolved to your satisfaction, sir. My Passenger Services Coordinator will have a greater ability to rectify this situation.”   
   
The Coordinator arrived with an iPad mini in one hand and her iPhone pressed to her ear. “Mr. Holmes. Welcome back, sir. I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances. I’m working on the situation.”  
   
She removed her hand that covered the mouthpiece. “Yes, I will. Thank you,” she said into the phone, and then turned back to the two men. “Allow me to escort you through security and to the Clubhouse.” They left their luggage for a steward to retrieve and followed her to the dedicated Upper Class security check.  
   
“With the way today is going, I’m sure they’ll find a bomb in your carry on, Mycroft,” Greg joked as Mycroft placed his satchel on the x-ray conveyor belt.    
   
“Greg!” Mycroft gasped.  
   
“Sir!” the Coordinator warned. “I must insist that you make no jokes of that nature. The security workers are capable of detaining you for such a joke.”  
   
Greg, a red flush creeping over his face and neck, put his hands up in surrender. “I’m so sorry.”  
   
“Some things even I would not be able to extricate you from, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, interlocking his fingers with Greg’s as they waited for their carry-on bags to be returned.   
   
Ms. Kelly (who ‘ _shouldn’t wear such a bright shade of red with her ginger hair and fair skin_ ,’ Mycroft texted to Gregory) ushered them into Clubhouse and brought bottled waters before she continued to contact people through both the iPad and phone.   
   
They sat at the deserted bar and nursed their water while they waited. Mycroft checked his watch again, then said, “Would you like another drink? Perhaps something stronger than water? Or, if you are hungry, we can order something? Although they do serve dinner on the flight--”  
   
Greg soothed Mycroft, stroking his back. “I’m fine. We’re fine. They’re going to figure this out and then we will be on ‘hols!’”  He emphasized the last word in his best British accent.  
   
“Hols? Oh my Lord. You have been watching  _Doctor Who_  again, haven’t you?” Mycroft laughed as he teased Greg. “Please promise me that, at no point in the next week will you attempt an accent again.”  
   
Greg smiled but made no promises; he dropped a quick peck on Mycroft’s lightly whiskered jaw. His facial hair grew-in strawberry blond, difficult to see but rough on Greg’s lips. He did like the way that felt against his cheeks.  
   
Ms. Kelly interrupted any further kissing. “Gentlemen, I have secured you two seats on the 5:35 flight this evening. Unfortunately, I have only one in Upper Class. We did petition the other passengers, but none were willing to offer their seat. Tomorrow night I do have two in Upper Class, which I can reserve for you right now. Shall I?”  Ms. Kelly’s finger was poised over the iPad’s mobile app for Virgin, ready to reserve the seat.  
   
“Madam, I must be in London this evening. We are attending my brother’s wedding tomorrow.” The vein at the bottom of Mycroft’s cheek throbbed, and Greg recognized what that meant. The end of the patience.  
   
“I _can_ offer you two on this flight,” her finger swiped the app and pulled apart to maximize the page. “They are together, but they are not what you are accustomed to. They are located in Economy, and as you can see from this seating schematic, they are behind the Lower Level galley kitchen.”  
   
“Yes, good,” Greg decided. “We will take those two seats.” As Mycroft balked, Greg said, “We need to be there for tomorrow night. Next time you can show me Upper Class.” He drained his water bottle and handed Mycroft his near full bottle. “Let’s roll.”  
   
Ms. Kelly pressed “reserve” and led them to boarding. As they walked, Mycroft removed his phone from his inside jacket pocket and tapped out a text without missing a step or walking off path.

“Impressive,” Greg smiled. “But can you walk and chew gum at the same time?” 

“Such wit.” Mycroft looked at him with a raised brow as Ms. Kelly urged them to move faster. “I asked Sherlock to contact our car service to have them pick us up at general arrival instead of Upper Class arrival. I am sorry to say we will have to retrieve our baggage from among…the others.” He grimaced and shivered; Gregory assumed he was joking. With a second quick glance, he decided he wasn’t sure at all.

“Gentlemen, if I could urge us to move more quickly. The plane is already past its scheduled departure.” Toddlers. Why must all men act like toddlers instead of focusing on what was important?

Scheduled to leave at 5:35 pm, the flight was already delayed for “unforeseen circumstances” the captain had informed the passengers. Once Greg and Mycroft entered the economy seating area, the irritated passengers realized what the “unforeseen circumstances” were. They struggled down the aisle to their seats near the back, holding their carry-ons so they didn’t swing and hit an aisle passenger. The plane was close to capacity, with occasional single seats dotting rows; to Greg, if felt as if every one of those people cast an evil eye on them.   
   
Greg wedged Mycroft’s garment bag into the stuffed overhead compartment and pushed his backpack under his seat as he sat. Mycroft chose the window seat, while Greg sat sandwiched between Mycroft and a woman who stopped chatting with her across-the-aisle-neighbor just long enough to introduce herself (“Hi! I’m Kitty!”). Her knitting needles never slowed.   
   
As the plane pulled away from the gate and lumbered down the runway, a steward’s voice crackled over the tannoy. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to direct your attention to the television monitors on the seat back in front of you. We will be showing our safety demonstration and would like the next few minutes of your complete attention.”  
   
Greg breathed in and held it, releasing it in small puffs. They were on the plane—maybe not fancy upper class Mycroft was used to—but they were sitting together and would have no interruptions for the next 8 hours.   
   
As the plane began its ascent, Mycroft gripped Greg’s right arm, his hand white knuckled and shaking.   
   
“I hate flying,” Mycroft whispered through thin lips, not loosening his clutch on Greg’s hand. “I know statistically that nothing will occur. Yet--” The only color on Mycroft’s face were red blotches at his cheekbones.   
   
“You’re breathing too shallow. Take deep breaths. Deep,” Greg modeled the slow in and out, and Mycroft followed him.   
   
Greg removed Mycroft’s death grip on his arm and held his hand with both of his. He stroked the back of Mycroft’s hand with his thumb, whispering words to make him laugh, to make him breathe, even words to make him look forward to the hotel. As they leveled off, he offered Mycroft a piece of gum to help with the pressure in his ears. Mycroft raised Greg’s hand to his lips and brushed his lips across the palm. He accepted the gum and color returned to Mycroft’s pale face.   
   
“When I fly Upper Class, I inform the attendant to bring my welcome cocktail immediately and to continue doing so until such a time as I feel it is no longer necessary,” Mycroft explained to Gregory, who’d asked for no explanation. He faced out the window and wouldn’t look at Greg. “The liquid courage allows me to withstand my panic. I’m ridiculous. I know.”  
   
“Hey,” Greg touched Mycroft’s hand. He didn’t flinch or pull away, but Mycroft still wouldn’t face Greg. “My, please. Look at me.” He reached out to Mycroft’s chin and guided it to face him. “Thank you for telling me that. I know it wasn’t easy for you to admit that. If that is what you need to get through a flight, then that’s what you’ll have.” Greg raised his arm, hoping to gain the attention of the attendant.  
   
“No, I am fine now that we are in the air,” Mycroft said. “I’ll have a tea when they bring the trolley.” Color had returned to his face and his breathing was shallow but recovering.   
   
“Can  _I_ tell  _you_  something?” Greg’s voice hitched. Mycroft nodded as he took Gregory’s tanned, rough hands into his own. With a deep breath, Greg said, “When Jim Moriarty outed Sherlock and John, I told them I didn’t agree with their choice.” Greg looked down, aside, anywhere but into Mycroft’s eyes. “I couldn’t imagine being with a man. But as I spent more time with you, you were all I thought about. I’d be at a restaurant and think, ‘Oh, Mycroft would enjoy these scallops.’ Or I would watch a baseball game and try to compare it to what you had told me about cricket.”  
   
Mycroft brushed his hand up and down Greg’s arm, smiling to encourage him. “I also did that.”  
   
“Then one day at school, when I saw John and Sherlock arguing in the office, I realized I envied how much they loved each other and how happy they are. And my next thought was that I was happiest when I was with you.   
   
“Now, when I see myself with someone,  _being_  with someone, it’s you.” Greg looked over his shoulder to be sure Knitty Kitty wasn’t listening. Hell, she probably was.   
“I’m sorry I discounted it. I hope you’re not angry that I was—closed-minded.”  
   
Mycroft chuckled, as he captured Gregory’s hands before they wore through the upholstery on the seats worrying it. “There was nothing closed-minded about you the other night in my kitchen.” Mycroft winked at an embarrassed Greg. “I liked it,” Mycroft added.   
   
“Do I need to prove to you again that I’m open minded?” Greg said with an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose if I must, I must.” He laughed and settled himself into his center seat, still holding Mycroft’s hand.  
   
Two hours into the eight hour trans-Atlantic flight, the flight attendants offered menus for dinner. Mycroft declined, citing no appetite, but Greg suspected the Economy menu would not meet Mycroft’s gastronomic standards. With no such reservations, Greg ordered beef stew and a coffee.  
   
Her hands no longer occupied, Knitty Kitty turned her attention to Greg. Mycroft, whose head rested on his travel pillow against the window, listened to the non-stop stream of insight, gossip, revelations and (Mycroft shuddered) _flirting_. Through the appetizer, the entrée, even the peach crumble and coffee.  
   
“You’re a principal? Oh my God! I taught elementary school for 15 years. With the standardized testing, I had to get out. Plus, you know, the younger teachers come in with their new ideas, and those of us with experience, they just look down on us. I mean, come on, I’m only 40, but you’d think I was a dinosaur. Oh, I didn’t mean to tell you that. That damn cocktail! But look at you. You’re younger than 40. Oh you’re not? My you look good for a man in his 40s. Oops. I didn’t mean to say that either. So, are you married? Is there a Mrs. Principal?”  
   
Mrs. Principal? Was this woman serious? Who would be ill-mannered enough to try to ensnare a boyfriend on a flight? And if she put her hand on Gregory’s arm one more time, Mycroft would…  
   
Greg heard the muttering, and although Mycroft pretended to be asleep, he knew his lover took every word to heart. The pursed lips, clenched jaw, the way his left hand clutched the pillow were dead giveaways.  
   
How long had it been since someone was jealous over him? Greg smiled at the funny feeling in his stomach. It was either the beginning of love or some funky beef stew. Still facing Knitty Kitty, smiling and ummhmmm’ing in the right spots, he dropped his hand over his right arm rest. Greg caressed Mycroft’s thigh, his fingers trailing from knee to hip. The first time he dipped his fingers toward Mycroft’s inner thigh, Greg swore Mycroft squeaked.   
   
Kitty continued her stream of conscious comments, eventually ending with, “Would you like to grab a drink when we get to Gatwick, Greg?” He’d been focused on Mycroft and his growing bulge that he hadn’t noticed til that moment how close Kitty had leaned in toward him, resting her hand on his bicep.   
    
“Uh, I don’t think so, Kitty,” Greg smiled.  
   
“Now Greg, you’re on vacation. Live it up! Come have a drink with me. I won’t take no for an answer!” She beamed her most winning smile.  
   
“Kitty…”  
   
“Please?” She lowered her eyes, and then looked up at him through her eyelashes. She pouted in a way that was supposed to be sexy.  
   
“Kitty, Mycroft and I are on vacation. Together. We’re together.”  
   
Mycroft’s eyes popped open. That was a first for Greg.  
   
“Really? For real?” She wrinkled her nose and stared at Greg. “You don’t look…”   
  
It may have been the set of Greg’s jaw or the warning look on Mycroft’s face, but she closed her mouth without finishing the idea.   
   
Out came the knitting needles and yarn, and Knitty Kitty turned to her cross-aisle neighbor to vilify the meal. With the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign off, she moved to the empty seat in the center row.  
   
“Myyyyycroft,” Greg rearranged himself in his seat to face Mycroft. “I do believe you were jealous.”  
   
“I certainly was not,” Mycroft said, his head still resting against the pillow, eyes closed.  
   
“You werrrrre. I saw.” With his finger, Greg traced the shell of Mycroft’s ear and continued down his neck.  
   
Eyes still closed, Mycroft’s face revealed nothing. “At best, you observed indigestion from the aroma--and I use that word loosely--of your dinner.”  
   
“You like me,” Greg teased. “Admit it. You liiiiike me.”  
   
Mycroft cracked open one eyelid. “Who is spreading such dirty lies?”  
   
“I believe it is Mr. Hottie Principal with the big biceps.” Greg smiled and raised an eyebrow, imitating Kitty’s come-hither look.  
   
“I suspected you were untrustworthy.” Two open eyes, creases at the corner, and a smile. A beautiful smile for Gregory.

Greg loved when Mycroft laughed. His stern, serious face softened the moment his mouth turned upward. And the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. To Greg, they were irresistable. How many meetings during the spring had Greg said something ridiculous to see Mycroft’s smile and to see the crinkles form. 

Women at school talked at great length about Sherlock’s eyes, describing them like the Caribbean. To Greg, Sherlock’s eyes were nothing compared to Mycroft’s. They were stunning, blue and gray, like a deep, rough Atlantic in the middle of a storm.

“Oh, you wanted trustworthy!” Greg removed his sweatshirt from his backpack wedged under his seat, and balled it up to use as a pillow. “I thought you wanted _charming_!” Mycroft rolled his eyes, implying Greg was neither at the moment.

After the meal service, the flight attendants dimmed the lights in the cabin to make it easier for sleeping.  
   
“Ma’am,” Gregory called to the passing attendant. “May we have two blankets please?”  He winced at a $10 price tag (When did airlines start charging for blankets?) and handed over his credit card (I’m sorry Sir. We don’t accept cash.) for two blankets  and pillows.  
   
He spread one blanket over Mycroft from shoulders to waist, and one from waist to knees. “I want you to be comfortable, and I don’t need one,” Greg said, answering Mycroft’s question.    
   
He twisted his body so that his sweatshirt pillow and head could rest on Mycroft’s shoulder.  “Are you good?” he asked.   
   
Mycroft nodded and tilted his head to rest atop Gregory’s. He twined his fingers through Greg’s and nodded off.  
   
Greg tried to sleep. He did try. But his body knew it was nowhere near his usual 1 am bedtime. He couldn’t read. Couldn’t access the internet without paying. Not much else he could do, except cause trouble.  
   
He rested his palm on Mycroft’s chest and felt the rise and fall of his even breathing. Sleeping. All the better.   
   
Careful not to wake up Mycroft, Greg slid his left hand under the blanket, resting it on Mycroft’s chest as a safe spot. When Mycroft didn’t stir, Greg dragged his hand down his chest, down his belly, until he reached his goal. He cupped Mycroft’s cock in his hand and remained still.   
   
Certain that Mycroft hadn’t woken, Greg traced the lines of the growing cock, using only one finger. In his experience, light brushes were _much_ more erotic than firm pressure.   
   
Up and down. A finger tip. A finger nail. Trace the head, then back down. Mapping the contours of something he’d only felt once, that evening in Mycroft’s kitchen. The moon had not offered enough light for his eyes, but then, they’d been closed anyway. He’d committed that moment to memory, the weight of Mycroft’s cock on his tongue, filling his mouth; the scent of him mingling with his expensive shower soap. His cock tensing and finally pulsing, the come sliding down Greg’s throat.   
   
Greg stifled a moan, his own erection pushing against his fly. He grew harder each time his finger outlined Mycroft’s cock, and his memories made it even more difficult to be silent. _How_ was Mycroft sleeping through this, and what the hell was he dreaming about, with that smile.  
   
Mycroft squirmed in his sleep. The blanket offering Greg courage, he unzipped the suit pants, and reached through the fly of Mycroft’s silk boxers (Silk? No surprise.) to free his cock. Greg wrapped his hand around the thickness, enjoying the feel of the smooth skin—silkier than the boxers—and the warmth of it. 

Thank God for the darkened cabin and that Knitty Kitty had moved across the aisle, allowing them both extra room and privacy. Greg repositioned himself, trying to remove some pressure from his own cock, but not releasing his light grasp on Mycroft’s. With the better angle, Greg’s left hand dragged up and twisted over the glans, capturing the droplets of precome beading at the slit. Greg sighed and repeated the motion, debating the wisdom of releasing his own cock from his pants, aroused enough that he thought it quite possible he wouldn’t even need to touch it for it to explode. 

“You truly are quite gifted at this.” 

The whispered voice in the quiet cabin stopped Gregory’s hand. 

“Please. Don’t stop,” Mycroft breathed, turning his head to look into Gregory’s heavy eyes. He slid a hand behind Greg’s neck and drew him closer. When their lips met, Mycroft slipped his tongue between Greg’s lips. 

“I can’t multi task.” Gregory drew back from the kiss, dragging his tongue over his top lip. “My mind isn’t working right. I can’t stroke you and kiss you like that and not fall out of the seat all at the same time.”

“Sitting is over-rated,” Mycroft said, arching his back and pushing up into Greg’s fist. He needed more Greg. His mouth. His voice. His touch. Everything.

“I shouldn’t finish you, should I…” Greg asked, his voice trailing off. 

“It _would_ be ill advised. Gorgeous. But ill advised.” Mycroft’s half-smile mirrored Greg’s. He pushed his cock up into Greg’s hand one more time, feeling the ridges of the fingers twist over his head, slick his precome down his shaft. Before he could bare to remove his hand, Greg used his finger to massage the slit, small circles that caused Mycroft to whimper. 

When he removed his hand, Greg brought the finger to Mycroft’s lips, not just tracing their fullness, but also painting them with the fluid. The tip of Mycroft’s tongue followed the path of Greg’s finger, and then he pulled Greg back in for a kiss. Nipping, sucking, wishing Greg’s mouth was his cock. 

Greg palmed himself, wondering how god-awful bad a charge of public indecency would look on his resume.

“I, I have to…I must use the facilities,” Mycroft said as he pulled the blankets from his body. He stood up and immediately returned to his seat.

Gregory laughed. With the nearest bathroom 10 rows behind them at the back of the plane, close to 100 passengers would see every evidence of Mycroft’s delicate situation.

“You shouldn’t laugh, love.” Mycroft pointed at Greg’s lap. “Clearly, you are in the same predicament.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Greg shifted in his seat again, looking for a position that would relieve the delicious torture of his erection pushing against his zipper. “Are you sure we can’t…” 

“Quite sure.” Mycroft stood again. Taking off his suit jacket, he folded it over his left arm and hugged it to his torso. “That will at least hide the worst of my sins,” he said as he squeezed himself between Greg’s knees at the seat back to get to the aisle. “I shall return.” 

Unable to resist, Greg patted Mycroft’s ass as he moved toward the aisle. Mycroft turned back, smiling at him. Greg let him go. He didn’t have the heart to tell Mycroft that the jacket did little to hide his problem. 

Without the beautiful distraction beside him, Greg focused on factual, non-sexual, non-Mycroft thoughts. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. Baseball. What is the statistical probability that a Florida baseball team would make it to the World Series? Why do they call it the World Series when it’s only US teams? World Cup Soccer is the only ‘world series’ there is. Why does the US call it soccer. Australia calls it soccer too. I’ve never been to Australia. I bet Mycroft has been to Australia. On the beach. In a bathing suit. God, don’t let it be a Speedo. Oh God. What if it were a Speedo?  

No wait. Bad. Bad thought. Great thought, but bad thought. Greg breathed in again and checked his lap. Better, but not down. Start again. 

Things I need to do at work when I get back: check on number of new enrollment, ascertain if any special needs students have issues that will require additional support staff. Identify openings in faculty. Dammit. I need a new chorus director. Who’s gonna live up to what Watson accomplished? Shit! And a history teacher. Holmes was our best history teacher. Those damn Holmes brothers, cause trouble. I’ll bet Mycroft could cause some trouble. On the beach in Australia… 

Sigh. Oh God. I’m in deep, Greg realized. He felt the warmth in his chest, fluttery, but real. He knew what this was. And that was good. Very good. 

Mycroft returned to their row, this time wearing his suit jacket.

“Better?” Greg asked.

“Much.” That smile. Those crinkles. 

They settled back into their seats, holding hands over the awkward arm rest. “One second,” Mycroft said and twisted, reaching between their seats to finagle something Greg couldn’t see. With a metallic click, Mycroft pulled up the arm rest, and they could sit together, hips touching, hands resting within each other. 

They nestled under the blankets in the darkened cabin for the remainder of the flight, sometimes sleeping, sometimes sharing kisses, mostly sharing their lives. 

Almost eight hours after they started what Mycroft dubbed “their journey to Hell,” the attendants raised the cabin lights and served boxed breakfast and what passed for tea.    

“You have made this trip tolerable,” Mycroft said, holding Greg’s hand. “I am thankful that you agreed to join me.” 

Greg poked at the soggy bagel and single-serve tub of cream cheese, frozen enough that his plastic knife couldn’t penetrate it. “Will the food be better on land?” 

“I promise you five-star lodgings and food when we get to London.” Mycroft preened, knowing he could make up for Economy class with the hotel in London before and after the wedding. 

“It doesn’t matter to me, Mycroft. I just…like being with you.” 

Mycroft looked into Gregory’s eyes. He saw no duplicity, only truth. With a deep breath, Mycroft leapt—ignoring the quivering in his stomach. “I quite enjoy being with you, too.” 

Breakfast collected. Tray tables and seat backs in an upright position. Mycroft’s death grip on Greg’s hand (descent turned out to be more torturous because it couldn’t be medicated with alcohol).

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to London’s Gatwick Airport. The local time is 8:45 am and the temperature right now is 17° Celsius or 62° Fahrenheit.” 

They gathered Greg’s backpack and Mycroft’s garment bag and waited in the long line to deplane. Mycroft fidgeted. Squirmed. Twiddled. Twitched. 

“Mycroft. Will you please stop. I know what you’re thinking. In Upper Class we would have been in the car already. And that this waiting is interminable. But we are here. And we are waiting.” Greg fussed but tried to keep his voice respectful. 

“Yes, Principal Lesssstraaaade.” Mycroft answered in his best school-boy voice. 

“Not yet, baby. Role play comes later.” He winked at Mycroft who barked a laugh, not expecting that reply. Gregory was good for him. Yes. Quite. 

They passed through Immigration and flew through the Green channel at Customs, having nothing to declare. 

“I have something to declare!” Gregory said as they stood at Customs. “We have nothing to fear but fear itself!” 

“That wasn’t Churchill, Gregory,” Mycroft sighed. “That was Franklin Roosevelt.” 

“Oh! I know! Keep Buggering On!” 

“Gregory!” Mycroft was aghast, made worse by the other passengers laughing with them. “Again, that’s _Doctor Who_ , not the proper Churchill! Now do be quiet!”

Greg stuck his tongue out at Mycroft and said, “This is _not_ your finest hour.” He hrrumpfed and moved on, still laughing. Mycroft apologized behind him, following in Gregory’s wake to the baggage collection area. 

“No text from the car service. Perhaps they’re running late,” Mycroft noticed. 

“Oh, these bags are from our flight. Kitty’s just came through.” Greg pointed to the swarm of passengers reaching for luggage. 

“With the way this flight has gone, I’d have no trouble believing that our luggage will be in New London, Connecticut.”  

“I thought the flight was pretty good.” A smile. 

“Well, yes. Quite.” With that, the last dozen bags pushed through, and Greg and Mycroft plucked their bags and headed to the coffee shop for a proper cup of tea before contacting the car company. All around them, families reconnected. Friends hugged. Spouses kissed. Children jumped around, asking for gifts. Grandparents enjoyed the reunions. Mycroft and Greg watched the joyous reunions as they waited in the queue. 

“One tea, two sugars. One coffee, black,” Mycroft ordered when they reached the counter. 

“Mycroft! Graham! Welcome to London!” 

Mycroft whirled around, trying to find the voice. _That_ voice. His mouth fell open, and he stared. 

“Mykie! Welcome home!” 

Greg turned around, to find who or what could cause Mycroft Holmes to be at a loss for words.  A woman, well into her 60s, gray hair and a beatific smile, trailed by a gentleman of the same age. He bore an amazing resemblance to Mycroft. 

“Mummy.” Mycroft’s posture stiffened, and Greg saw the muscle in his jaw pulsing.

“Mykie?” Greg mouthed, and Mycroft shot him a “Don’t. Even. Just. Don’t.” look. 

“We are _so_ happy to have you both here. Sherlock told us you would _love_ it if we surprised you here!” Mummy said. 

Mr. Holmes reached out to take Greg’s hand, shaking it with both of his own, large and callused from work. “Graham, we couldn’t be any happier that our Mykie brought you with him,” he said, still pumping Greg’s hand. 

“Gavin. I mean Greg. Greg Lestrade.” Flustered at the turn of events, Greg forgot his own name. “Very nice to meet you, sir.” 

“Sir was my father. Call me Siger, or Sig. Mother, this is _Greg_.” Mr. Holmes turned to his wife and introduced her. 

“Oh Greg, please forgive an old woman. Sherlock told me your name was Graham!” She enveloped Greg in a hug and kissed his cheek. “Call me Violet, please.” 

“Now that you have your bags,” Siger said, “We can…”

“Let me tell them!” Violet bubbled with excitement, her hands fluttering in front of her. “Mykie, I cancelled your hotel rooms and made up the two bedrooms at the cottage for you and Greg! You’re going to be staying with us!” 

 

 

 

 


	4. A Mummy Knows These Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With all thanks to the devious Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg will stay with Mummy and Father instead of a lovely, private hotel suite. And Mummy's radar and timing is impeccable.... will ANYONE survive John and Sherlock's wedding tomorrow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay updating. It's summer vacation from school here, and separating the kids from my side so I can write is almost impossible. I've even taken to bringing the computer out on the pool deck. Yeah, trust me. I really shouldn't. My luck is like MyStrade's in this story... 
> 
> Plus, it needed a rewrite. 221btls showed me the light (as she always does, putting me on the yellow brick road). Less angst and petulance. More fondling. :D

In the center of the twisted, tangled sheets, John lay curled into Sherlock’s chest, the sweat on their bodies cooling in the air conditioning. He stroked the mark he’d left on Sherlock’s shoulder, the bite when Sherlock had collapsed on top of him just as John orgasmed between their bodies. Such a delicious way to start his last day as a single man, making love to his future husband, knowing he was responsible for the flush on Sherlock’s skin, the wild curls, the…

A hunting horn sounded, echoing in the hotel suite. Sherlock (whom John would have sworn had fallen into a post-coital coma) vaulted out of bed to retrieve his phone.

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, John, I know. But it’s got to be Mycroft…”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John shouted out to the living room of the suite. “Oh God, what did you do to that man.”

Sherlock’s laugh carried to John. When he returned to the bedroom, his curls messed and wild from John’s hands, Sherlock held the phone out for John to read.

 

            _I hate you._

“Sherlock, _what_ did you _do!_ ”

The hunting horn sounded again.

 

            _No. I *will* kill you._

And again.

 

            _I have the full resources of Queen and country at my disposal. Be afraid._

And again.

 

            _Be very afraid._

Each time it sounded, Sherlock chortled. Never in his life did John think he would use the word chortle, yet there it was.  Sherlock’s glee frightened John.

“Sherlock…”

“I _may_ have texted Mummy and Father and suggested that it would be a wonderful surprise if they cancelled Mycroft’s car and hotel reservations and picked them up at the airport. Then, Mycroft and Graham could stay with them for a lovely visit before the wedding.”

“You. Are. _Evil_. Why would you do that to those two poor men?” John laughed, grateful he wasn’t Sherlock’s enemy. “And his name is Greg.”

“Yes. _I_ know that.”

“You even set up your own mother and father?!”

“For the greater good John. The greater good.”

“Get back in here,” John said, pulling the sheets back, exposing his body for Sherlock’s pleasure. “I have only one day remaining as a single man, and I want to spend it in bed.”

“With me?”  Sherlock pointed to his chest, feigning innocence.

With a growl and a grab, John pulled Sherlock back into bed.

 

\----

Mycroft, next to Greg in the backseat of his parents’ Range Rover, slammed his phone onto the seat between them. “Ass.”

“Mykie. Language,” Mummy cautioned from behind the wheel.

“Yes, Mummy.” He looked at Greg and rolled his eyes. Greg laughed and rolled his in agreement. He picked up Mycroft’s phone and read the iMessages between the brothers. He laughed out loud at the exchange, knowing it was highly possible that one of the Holmes brothers wouldn’t make it back to Florida.

“What’s funny, dear?”  Mummy asked, finding Greg in her rear view mirror.

“Nothing, Miz Violet. Just Mycroft and Sherlock, being brothers.”

Siger turned around and smiled at Greg. “People don’t usually refer to them as funny. Murderous, yes. Competitive. Ferocious. Sarcastic…”

“Don’t forget cut-throat, aggressive…” Mummy added. Clearly, they had given great thought to this over the years.

“Adorable,” Greg mouthed and smiled. He slid his hand over Mycroft’s and squeezed. A flush crept up Mycroft’s face, but was nothing compared to the flutter in his stomach.

As she drove, Mummy kept up a stream of gossip about the neighbors, the local council, and Mycroft’s childhood friends. Eventually she directed the conversation to Sherlock and John.

“Father and I have quite enjoyed getting to know John. And Greg, we didn’t know they worked with you at the school. Sherlock spoke quite highly of you. He rarely speaks highly of anyone. Well, except himself.” Sig laughed, not taking his eyes off her. Greg watched them; after 45-plus years of marriage, he still adored her. The intensity of the love made Greg smile.

 

\---

 

The fieldstone cottage stood back from the road with a wide front yard riotous with wild flowers and rose bushes. It would provide a gorgeous backdrop for the wedding. Mycroft pointed out the canopy set up in the side garden for the wedding.

A cobblestone path led to the white wooden steps surrounded by wild rose bushes and more bumblebees than Greg had ever seen. Greg offered his arm to Violet as they climbed the three steps, and she took it with a smile. He held the front door open, and followed them into the deceptively large house.

Mummy and Father kicked off their shoes into the jumble of wellies and trainers at the front door and left in separate directions. Mycroft also removed his shoes, something Greg had never expected from the buttoned-down man. Where Greg had toed his boating shoes off and kicked them amid the pile, Mycroft sat on the bench and untied his, placing them atop the bench, as if being among the riffraff of wellies and trainers would besmirch his Oxfords. Handmade, the shoes cost more than Greg’s monthly mortgage payment, but they were what Mycroft’s Savile Row suit needed.

Greg laughed under his breath as he watched Mycroft’s ritual. He had no idea how two such kind, ordinary people created Mycroft and Sherlock. Mummy and Father were off-the-rack, mud and muck, beans on toast. Their children were handcrafted suits and shoes, Harrow, Almas caviar. Looking down at his knock-off polo shirt and khaki pants, wrinkled from travel, Greg knew he aligned more with the elder Holmes. But Mycroft liked him anyway. Love was a funny thing.

Mummy appeared in the foyer, somehow already wrapped in an apron and a sprinkle of flour on her hands and nose. “Greg, I’ve made up Sherlock’s room for you, and Mycroft, I thought you would like to be in your room. You’ll have just enough time to unpack and freshen up before lunch!”

When Mummy turned around, Greg rolled his eyes at Mycroft. What could they do, Mycroft shrugged. Mummy’s house. Mummy’s rules. Soon enough they would luxuriate in an opulent suite in a posh London hotel. Sunken tub with whirlpool jets. King size bed, soft enough never to want to leave. Five star room service. And maybe, just maybe, when they walked into the suite, he’d would walk up to Greg, who would stand there and watch him, and his tongue would moisten those delicious lips and stay trapped there. He’d slip his hand behind Greg’s neck, and twist his fingers in that sun bleached hair. Tug, just a small tug though, not give too much away. While his other hand rested on Greg’s ass—unnnnf, he needed to see that ass—he’d kiss his cheek, and slowly move toward the ear, that sensitive part right under the lobe. With his tongue he’d trace the shell of Greg’s ear, and Greg would moan, just a small one, a promise of more to come. He’d kiss a line down Greg’s neck, following the path of his vein, then retrace his path with his tongue, flicking it over Greg’s collar bone (God he loved how Greg’s collar bone showed so prominently in the open neck of his polo shirt like it was right now). The polo shirt had to go. He’d pull that shirt right over Greg’s head and drag his fingers through the downy hair on Greg’s chest until, lower, lower, he…

“Up these stairs then?” Greg asked, pointing to the time-worn steps.

Mycroft nodded. He didn’t dare speak; his voice would crack like a horny teenager if he tried. At least he could carry his suitcase to hide his erection until he could duck into the bathroom and rearrange himself.

By the top of the 16 steps, Mycroft regained his voice. “We’ve always lived here,” Mycroft explained when they reached the landing. “My parents moved in on their wedding night. They were the only cottage in view. This is Sherlock’s room.” He directed Greg to the room on the right of the landing.

“And Mykie’s room?” Greg teased.

“It’s the next one. My parents’ is on the other side of the loo.” Mycroft said as he laid Greg’s suitcase on the wooden bench at the foot of the bed. “In the middle of the night, mind that you get the right door. I wouldn’t want you to wind up in my parents’ room by mistake instead of...” He smiled at Greg and said, “…the loo. Or whatever room you were looking for.”

He seized the moment away from his mother’s unerring attention to reach for Greg, but Greg reached out to him first. Cupping Mycroft’s chin in his hands, Greg brushed his lips over his lover’s. His touch light, but his meaning clear, as if he’d been reading Mycroft’s thoughts before. Their lips met again, deeper, needier this time.

“My, I…”

A nip on his lower lip cut off the rest of Greg’s comment. Oh. Yes. Bite me again… but their teeth clashed. God even that was so. fucking. hot.

“…want you. Want you so much.” Greg whispered because they weren’t alone in the house. Didn’t wanna whisper. Wanted to yell out. Strip Mycroft out of that suit. Kiss his body. Spend the rest of the day doing that. Sucking him until he came. Swallow it down, all of it, and then start over. He rested his forehead against Mycroft’s, whose eyes revealed his desire as did his cock pushing against Greg’s.

“I know. I…” Mycroft looked around, helpless to solve their situation. “We can’t leave. Mummy and Father would never understand.” His chest rose and fell heavily as he tried to regain control. But when he looked at Greg’s lips, red and swollen from kissing, he wanted to start again. To make them better, then kiss them worse.

Mycroft pulled away while he still had a shred of sense and decorum, and headed for the doorway with his suitcase. He turned to Greg with a smile and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” and left for his old room.

With a sigh of unresolved desire, Greg rooted through his suitcase for clean clothes and headed for the bathroom. He gave a quick shower and quicker wank some thought—a lot of thought—but settled for washing his face and brushing his teeth before returning to Sherlock’s room to change for lunch.

Although the room stood empty for the better part of 15 years, Greg felt like Sherlock had stepped out a moment ago. It was immaculate, no dust on the shelves or in the cracks of the floorboards. Three click pens laid on top a stack of yellowing notebooks. Shelves overflowed with books--texts, biographies of obscure scientists, and detective novels. The number of those astounded Greg, realizing that it must have been how Sherlock learned to make his lightning-fast deductions.

A cork bulletin board leaned against the wall above the desk. Someone had tacked dozens of photographs on it, some faded from sunlight and time and some still vibrant after more than a decade. Greg had heard that Sherlock backpacked through Eastern Europe after the fall of the Soviet Empire. These must be his. Each photo revealed something about the subject, capturing the life in those far-away places. The skill was astounding; was there nothing Sherlock couldn’t do?

Speaking of ‘couldn’t do’...What wasn't here…not on the shelves, not tucked away in the closet or bureau drawers…not a single certificate of merit. No trophies. No first place ribbons. As Sherlock’s boss, Greg was aware of his personality quirks. If something didn’t interest Sherlock (such as mandatory reports and student information forms), he wouldn’t do it. He could envision Sherlock the student, tasked with memorizing Latin declensions for a quiz, deciding that reading poetry in Latin was much more important and useful. After all, what did a failing quiz grade matter when he read the _Aeneid_ in its original language?

Deciding against unpacking, Greg replaced his wrinkled, travel-worn clothes with fresh shorts and another polo and left the dirty clothes in a pile on the bed.

He stood in Mycroft’s doorway and watched his lover stare at photos in an album. It looked faded with age; Greg gauged it to be at least 25 years old, because he had a similar one at his mama’s home with pictures from high school.

With a perfunctory knock, he entered the room and sat on the bed. Mycroft’s mood had changed. He seemed…somber.

“Hey,” Greg said and, with his finger under Mycroft’s chin, brought his friend’s face toward his. Greg inched in, looking for permission, waiting for a stop, and brushed his lips across Mycroft’s. “Are you alright? What are these pictures?”

“They’re nothing,” Mycroft said, almost closing the album before Greg stopped him. “They’re from my sixth form.”

Greg slid the album to his lap and pointed at a photo of two boys, young men really, playfully standing arm in arm. Mycroft in a navy blazer and gray pants, dark tie askew, holding a straw boater hat in one hand; the boy dressed in the same uniform. “Look at you with all that ginger hair.”

Mycroft grimaced and ran his fingers through his short, sparse hair.

“No, don’t be self-conscious,” Greg said, taking Mycroft’s hand and kissing the palm. He brought his cheek next to Mycroft’s, and whispered (because he didn’t know who could be lurking), “I think you are incredibly sexy. I would totally do you.”

Mycroft’s laughter echoed in the room, and Greg’s pretense of being wounded made him laugh harder.

“Sheesh. Compliment a guy as eloquently as you can…” 

“Yes. That certainly was the most…yes…” Mycroft’s laughter prevented him from finishing.

Crossed arms and lips pursed, Greg feigned petulance. “You’ll have to make this up to me, you know. I’m injured. Truly. Deeply.”

Mycroft pulled him to standing and wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist. “Yes, I will make this up to you.” He kissed Greg, their lips meeting for a single moment.

“Show me your room—your life. Show me who you were.”

Like Sherlock’s, Mycroft’s room reflected the man Greg knew. He pointed out his certificates for excellent grades, fencing championships, and leadership at the Model U.N. Like his brother’s, Mycroft’s dust-free shelves overflowed with texts and numerous history books. Instead of detective novels, Mycroft favored biographies of world leaders.

“Look at all this stuff. You were quite a clubber,” Greg moved a stack of books and reached for a fishbowl filled with a teenager’s detritus. Match books, beer coasters, concert ticket stubs.

Mycroft’s face paled. “I didn’t know that was still here. I should have gotten rid of it years ago.” He pushed it to the back of the bureau’s top and returned the stack of books in front of it.

“Was there a gold fish?”

“What? Why?” Mycroft asked, releasing his breath in small measures.

“My, what’s wrong?” Greg asked, rubbing Mycroft’s shoulder reassuringly.

Mycroft shook his head and picked up the photo album from his bed, and with one last look at the young men in the pictures, he closed it and placed it back on the shelf. While he was busy, he said, “Nothing is wrong. Yes. There was a gold fish at one time. Fairy. But Fairy died.”

Mycroft forced the album into its place and said, “We should return to the kitchen or Mummy will think something untoward is occurring up here.” He held the open door for Greg, ushering him out of his childhood room.

“I should be so lucky,” Greg said, sliding his hand across Mycroft’s ass as he walked by.

Mycroft smiled, the color returning to his face.

“Boys. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes,” Mummy called upstairs from the kitchen

"Mummy. We are grown men not boys!"  Mycroft barely finished before he realized the irony of his statement and his whining, petulant tone.

“Perhaps you should sound like one, Mycroft," Mummy said with a raised eyebrow as she finished dicing the carrots and added them to the salad. Picking up the ripe tomato, she said, “Father, take Mykie outside and show him the wedding setting for tomorrow. Greg, you’re welcome to sit here at the counter and chat with me.” Father and son knew Mummy’s suggestions were directives. Even Greg realized an order when he heard it. He sat on the bar stool and watched Mummy dice tomatoes.

“Tell me about yourself, Greg,” she said with a kind smile, while the sharp knife carved the tomato into tiny cubes. 

Perhaps, Greg thought, Mummy Holmes isn’t the dithering scatterbrain she presents herself to be. He had difficulty pulling his eyes from the knife to answer her. 

“Yes, ma’am. I'm born and raised in Florida, which is rare. I taught for a few years, and then became principal at Jesup Arts. Been there 10 years.” He ate the slice of tomato she offered, not because he wanted it, but because it meant he could stop talking.

“And the divorce? Two years ago?” She looked in his face, daring him to lie. 

“Almost. Two years in November.” Dammit. How the fuck did these Holmes’ do that?

“It’s the line encircling your left ring finger, dear. Not as pale as it could be, but not as tan as the rest of your hand,” she answered the question he hadn’t asked. How did they all do that, too?

Using the knife, Mummy slid the cubed tomatoes off the cutting board into the salad. She laid the knife down on the counter and rested her chin on her hands. Her gaze steady, she held Greg’s attention as she asked, “What is it about you that my son likes?”

“I beg your pardon?” Greg stammered out an answer. “We’re-- friends.”

“No. Mycroft doesn’t make friends, certainly not easily,” she said. Her eyes bore into him, trying to read what he wasn’t saying. “Why does my son like you?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Greg answered without guile. “He is the most brilliant person I have ever met. He’s kind. Funny. Caring. He’s a great friend.”

Violet studied his expression and body language: shoulders relaxed, pupils dilated, wide smile. Greg told her the truth from his heart. Violet turned her attention back to the salad. The knife sliced through the green peppers without stuttering.

“We met because I needed legal advice as a principal, and the district sent Mycroft,” Greg explained. “Our first meeting was in my office. Mycroft never finished one sentence because of the interruptions. He insisted that we work over lunch or dinner—but not in my office. We’d spend maybe 20 minutes discussing our strategies, and then we’d talk about politics or whatever. Eventually we just met several nights a week for dinner. It was a standing…arrangement.” The air hung heavy with the word he didn’t say: dates. “To answer your question, I have no idea why he likes me. He could certainly have any friend he wanted.”

“I agree with you, dear. My sons are quite extraordinary, but few others have found them to be so. John Watson is one. You are another. Mycroft had a close friend at the university. They were full of life, always together those two. But Christopher passed away during their last year. Mycroft was distraught. Perhaps others didn’t notice, but a mummy knows these things. He stopped eating, stopped attending classes. Didn’t care about his grades." 

Violet focused on the salad, tossing it with the tongs, shaking the bottles of dressing, washing her hands. She blinked to hold back tears.

“He closed himself off from others, the way he did as a child. He grieved for years for his loss. Eventually, our Mycroft came back to us, but still there was a sadness. He sounds happy again. And today, I saw it in his eyes.” 

She reached out, covering Greg’s hand with hers. A few hidden soap bubbles tickled him under her fingers.

Greg thought she whispered, “Please don’t hurt him,” but Siger and Mycroft stomped through the back door, their voices overpowering hers.

“…too many chairs, Father?”

“No, it’s the perfect amount,” Father said. Mycroft knew he was hiding something and Mummy’s smile didn’t help.

“Perfect timing as usual, Father,” Mummy said as she placed the food in front of them.

Over grilled chicken and garden salad (“We must all watch our weight this week!” Mummy said), they discussed the rehearsal that evening and the wedding the next day. With tea and a decadent, home-made chocolate cake (“Well, we saved so many calories on lunch…” Mummy said), they lingered at the table through the quiet, late afternoon.

Until they were interrupted by the cacophony of a premarital argument. Sherlock’s voice rose louder to drown out John’s. With the intensity and volume of the argument, Mycroft suspected that the fate of the free world rested on the outcome. 

“I hear that the happy couple has arrived,” Mycroft noted drily, and Father laughed. 

“…asked him, Sherlock. I’m right about this, and you know it,” John yelled, stopping only to kiss Violet on the cheek. 

The disagreement continued through the house and into the kitchen, stopping only long enough for the grooms to greet the family. 

“Mycroft, what a lovely surprise!” Sherlock said, folding his brother into a hand shake turned hug.

“I’m still going to kill you,” Mycroft whispered into Sherlock’s ear. 

“Yes, but it will be worth it. Although, do wait until after my honeymoon,” Sherlock responded with a smile.

John hugged Violet and shook Sig’s hand. He smiled nervously at Greg, unsure how far the anger spatter would spread. 

Before conversation could begin, a knock on the front door interrupted the reunion; Sig returned with a priest in tow, early for the 5pm wedding rehearsal.       

“Church of England priest,” Mycroft explained under his breath to Greg. “Not a Catholic priest.” 

They milled about in the kitchen chatting until the others arrived. This was exactly what everyone needed to become acquainted, John thought. He knew that, strictly speaking, they wouldn’t normally rehearse weddings, but John had learned months ago nothing involving Sherlock was normal. He wanted to keep the cock-ups to a minimum on their day. Yes. This was lovely. Happiness and joy underscored the talk, the plans, the jokes, even the threats Mycroft levied against Sherlock and John. 

“I hope you will stay for dinner after the rehearsal,” Violet said to the priest. “We’re having fried chicken and later, strawberry shortcake!”

“Mummy, have you been trying out recipes again?” Mycroft asked. “Remember what happened last time.” 

“I found this recipe online. It comes highly recommended,” she answered. That smile again. Mycroft would get to the bottom of that. 

As the priest led them outside to begin, John’s phone vibrated. “Molly’s running late. She’ll be here in a few.” 

The priest positioned the harp and cellist, both friends of Violet’s. The mother and father of the groom sat in the front row. The mother and father of the other groom had passed away. Those two chairs would remain empty out of respect. 

The priest asked for each groom’s best man to step forward. 

“Here! I’m here!” Molly called, rushing into the garden. “And I brought a surprise!” 

Through the doorway, whooping and yelling hellos, tumbled Sean, Siobhan and Kiera Hudson. Honey and Matt followed at a more sensible pace. Given the size of Honey’s 6-month pregnant belly, no one would rush Honey any time soon. 

John and Sherlock rushed to greet them. 

“How…” 

“Awesome…” 

“…surprise you…” 

“…food?” 

“Grandmother! Grandfather!” Siobhan and Sean alternated hugging Sherlock’s parents and their favorite (former) teachers. Kiera wrapped her arms around Violet’s legs, until Sig picked her up and tossed her in the air. 

“Hi Mr. Lestrade!” Sean waved, not quite understanding what the principal was doing in England.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Siobhan asked, wrapping her arms around Greg’s waist. He laughed at the juxtaposition of the rude question and the giant hug. 

Mycroft had been sorting the facts in his mind, as was Sherlock, judging by the look on his face. Almost in unison, the brothers said, “Skype.” 

“Yes, smarty pants,” Honey said, lowering herself into a metal folding chair set up for tomorrow. Greg appeared at her elbow, to help her situate herself.

“That’s why you set out ‘extra’ seats,” Mycroft realized. “And the recipes.”

“Honey taught me all of the secrets to perfect southern fried chicken.”

Greg offered to fetch her a water or tea. Honey whispered, “I would kill for a sweet tea!”

“I will make you both some after the rehearsal,” Mycroft offered. The last time he’d spoken with Honey Hudson was in Greg’s office, her finger was in his face, shaming him for his behavior.

“I would be forever grateful,” she smiled as she answered. As a peace offering, it was perfect.

The priest called them all back into place. Molly stood on the priest’s right as John’s Best Woman.

“And yours?” the priest asked Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, waiting. Mycroft glanced at Greg, hoping for clarification. 

“I think Sherlock means you.” Greg prodded him toward his brother. 

Mycroft’s confusion grew as the priest pointed to his left. Sherlock strode to the front and placed Mycroft where the priest indicated. 

“But Sherlock...” 

“I _said_ you needed to ask him, Sherlock,” John snarked an ‘I told you so’ from the back of the arrangements. 

“Rubbish. He knew,” Sherlock called back. “You did know, didn’t you?” he asked his brother. 

“I…I…” Mycroft stood speechless. “Your best man?” 

“I couldn’t exactly ask John, could I?” Sherlock responded. 

“He did try to convince the priest over numerous emails,” John yelled from the back. 

“Mycroft, you are my brother, and I love you. A fact I will deny hereafter with fervor and never again mention on this mortal realm. I hope you will do me the honor of standing up with me at my wedding. You are my best man.”

Mycroft wiped at his eye, and Sherlock scoffed. “Do pull yourself together, brother. Or I’ll ask Greg.” 

“Greg!” corrected John and Lestrade before they realized Sherlock had gotten it right. 

With everyone in place, the Priest moved through the rehearsal, over and gone within 30 minutes. By all rights, the wedding should go without a hitch the next day.

Violet declared the evening perfect for eating outside and handed out tasks. The serious mood gave way to laughter and singing as they rearranged tables and chairs in the yard and laid out place settings. Since no one would allow Honey to help, she supervised the cooking, assuring an authentic southern fried chicken dinner. 

Conversation swirled around them as they ate, the melody of the southern accents mingling with the more clipped British. Mycroft, Sherlock, and John’s original British accents grew stronger to Greg’s delight.

“All ya'll, we have news.” Matthew raised his voice to be heard over the chatter. All heads turned to Matthew and Honey.

Honey struggled to stand, laughing at her own awkwardness. “It’s a boy!”

Calls of congratulations and good cheer rang through the garden.

“Does he have a name?” John asked, beaming for his future godson.

“We voted,” Matthew apologized.

“I won!” Siobhan said, bouncing in her seat. “Let me introduce baby Liam Eoin Hudson!” Unable to contain herself any longer, she jumped out of her seat and ran around the table to John and Sherlock. “I named them after my two favorite teachers. Liam for William Sherlock Scott Holmes. And Eoin for John Watson.”

“Liam Eoin is quite a mouthful,” Mycroft said, the corners of his mouth twitching.  

“Trust me,“ Matthew did laugh. “It’s way better than Eoin Liam. Go ahead. Say it.” 

Sherlock and John thanked Siobhan for the honor. She smiled and ran back to her seat. 

“As bad as Liam Eion sounds together, just be happy that Kiera didn’t win,” Matthew added. “Your godson would have been called ChocolateChip CookieDough.” 

Declaring dinner the best southern meal outside of the South and the strawberry shortcake fit for a Florida Strawberry Festival blue ribbon, the Hudsons returned to their hotel. Molly followed shortly after. 

Sherlock and John argued throughout the evening about the tradition of the betrothed not seeing each other before the wedding. Which led to a heated discussion of who was the bride and who was the groom. Sherlock insisted that, since John was shorter, he should be declared the bride.

“Am I a prettttty bride?” John asked, batting his eyes.

In the end, Sherlock convinced John that being apart was a rubbish idea. Greg felt certain it had less to do with tradition and more to do with the fact they had trouble keeping their hands to themselves. Sherlock offered their regrets, and they left for their hotel in the village. 

Mycroft and Greg sent Mummy and Father off to bed. They tidied the last bit of the kitchen (which Violet had already cleaned) and relished their first few minutes alone since morning. 

“Mummy cornered you,” Mycroft murmured, his hand reaching for Greg’s. “I’m so sorry. I should have warned you…” 

“It was fine. She loves her son a great deal and doesn’t want him hurt.” Greg reached for Mycroft’s cheek, dragging his thumb across the cheekbone. Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, soaking it in. “She didn’t exactly threaten me, but that knife never stopped slicing and dicing. I got her point.” 

Mycroft smiled at Greg’s touch and ummmhmmm’d. 

“I don’t want you hurt, either. I’m serious about this. About us. I’m not looking for another mistake,” Greg whispered at Mycroft’s ear. His warm breath, his nose caressing Mycroft’s earlobe.

Mycroft’s knees weakened. God. He ached for Greg’s touch, his hands, his lips. He _needed_ it, like air. When did _that_ happen?

“Do you think we could…” Greg asked.

“Are you boys hungry? Shall I fix you something to eat?” Mummy said, as she padded into the kitchen, her slippers scuffing against the tile floor. 

Mycroft pulled away from Greg just as Mummy flipped the light switch. Shit. **_Shit._** At least before he’d been facing away from her so she couldn’t see his… No glasses. She was almost blind without her glasses. Saved. 

He looked at Greg and saw it on his face, too. Mycroft mimed no glasses, and Greg breathed easier. They excused themselves as she put the kettle on, smiling to herself. She wasn’t nearly as blind as they had both assumed. 

Mycroft walked Greg to Sherlock’s room. “Good night,” he said, sounding like a school boy. 

“There’s no chance you could sneak in here?” Greg asked, pressing himself against Mycroft’s thigh. His hand slid down to Mycroft’s bottom and caressed him. 

Mycroft laughed. “You saw her. Her timing is impeccable. I do believe it’s some innate radar for my most private moments. Plus, I’m not even sure my parents realize I am gay.” The humor in his smile faded, more wistful than fun.

Greg pulled Mycroft in closer, burying his face in Mycroft’s neck. “You’ve never told them? Are you afraid they’ll be angry?”

“Who’ll be angry with you and about what?” Mummy asked at the doorway, the steam from her mug of tea swirling up to her face.

“Nothing Mummy,” Mycroft said, as he pulled away and patted Greg’s shoulder. Thank God she didn't have her glasses on. “Good night, you two.” He turned to his room and closed the door. Greg heard the click of the lock. 

“Good sleep, Gregory,” Mummy said and turned toward her bedroom across the hall. How could Mycroft think she and Father would be angry with him for finding another love?

Greg took his toothbrush to the bathroom and spent the time while he brushed deciding if he should sneak into Mycroft’s bed. He could just imagine Violet with her timing—discovering them naked, in bed…

As he walked out of the bathroom, Greg decided, yes. Yes. He would sneak in there and spend the night with his boyfriend. In the early hours, he could go back to his own bed, Mummy and Father none the wiser.

The light in Mycroft’s room, visible in the crack under the door, went out. Greg took a chance and knocked lightly.

No response.

He knocked again, really just a rap with one knuckle. 

No response. Probably better this way. If Sig and Violet didn’t know, that would be a helluva way for them to find out that their son was gay… 

Greg returned to Sherlock’s room and crawled into bed. He shoved his headphones into his ears, chose a classical piano album by his favorite pianist, pulled the quilt up to his ears, and dropped off to sleep. 

By the time Mycroft realized it _was_ a knock on his door, Greg had already gone back to his room. He tried Greg’s door (locked), and he knocked (unanswered). 

With a sigh, he returned to his own bed. As he drifted off to sleep he thought, probably better this way. That would **_not_** be the way he’d want Mummy and Father to find out their son was gay.

 

 

 


	5. Here Come The Grooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John's wedding day starts in chaos and ends in chaos. But what happens in between is beautiful and memorable. and hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you friends for your patience. 5 kids home for summer break, and I am having trouble stringing two thoughts together let alone on paper. Hopefully, the heat between Greg and Mycroft in this chapter will make it a little better.
> 
> A huge thank you to 221btls for sticking with me through 'the chapter that wouldn't end' and for giving me the best. compliment. 5ever. Y'all are just jel that she's not your beta.
> 
> The processional and recessional are from RENT; Angel and Collins fall in amazing love (uptempo), but when Angel dies of AIDS, the song tears your heart out as a funeral song. So, let's just pretend it wasn't for a funeral in the play, 'k? k.
> 
> If you like, i would be forever indebted for any love you leave. Hugs. kisses. words of eargasm.

Mycroft’s finger had barely lifted off the green ‘accept call’ dot on his iPhone. Even without the phone at his ear, he heard the chaos through the speaker. He directed the phone toward Gregory, rolled his eyes and shook his head in amusement.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Premarital jitters, most likely,” Mycroft said, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Are you listening to me?!”

Sitting opposite Mycroft, Greg heard each word Sherlock bellowed, even though Mycroft’s phone was not set to speaker.

“Sherlock. Please. I have little choice. You are yelling loud enough that I could hear you without a phone.”

Greg’s tea sloshed over the rim of his teacup; he dabbed at the creamy spill with his napkin, keeping his eyes focused on the table so he wouldn’t see the faces Mycroft made. He’d only laugh harder and spill more tea.

“I said, come get me **_right. now_**. I’m going home. Take me to the airport.” 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried again. Greg buttered two slices of toast for Mycroft and cut them diagonally before handing him the plate. 

“No, you giant twat! You’re staying here!” John’s voice pierced Mycroft’s ear. Wincing, Mycroft pulled the phone away. The argument continued in the background.

“It’s pandemonium,” he said to Greg. “Perhaps I should bring Sherlock here…”

“I’m  _not_ marrying you today,” Sherlock’s voice rose again but this time it was away from the mouthpiece. At John, then. “You are an unreasonable, yell-y man.”

“Yell-y isn’t even a word,” John yelled.

“Just hang up,” Greg said, taking a bite of his own toast. “It’s how they are, wedding jitters or not.”

“Sherlock, I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t you dare hang…”

Mycroft debated the merits of letting them kill each other versus stopping the inevitable. Just as he decided to hang up, a female voice called his name through the speaker.

“Mycroft. It’s Molly Hooper. Please come get Sherlock. If they’re separated, I think we can actually do this. Sherlock, sit. down. Yes. On the couch. John, close that bedroom door and don’t come out until I tell you. Do it.”

Greg heard it all, unsure when demure Ms. Hooper had turned into Super Nanny.

“I said,  **do it** .”

Greg wasn’t sure if Molly was speaking to Mycroft or John. Neither was Mycroft, because he said, “Yes ma’am” and hung up.

Mycroft folded the napkin from his lap and placed it next to his plate. “Thank you for toast. And for cutting it.” He placed a glancing kiss on Greg’s cheek and took two triangles with him as he left to pick up his brother.

“It was my pleasure,” Greg called after him

When the elevator doors opened on the hotel’s third floor, Mycroft stepped into the corridor and heard nothing. No threats. No curses. Nothing.

‘Either Molly has regained control or they’re all dead,’ he thought as he raised his knuckles to rap on the door. ‘Either way, it’s too late.’

Molly opened the door, her smile too bright for her frantic eyes. “One goes, one stays. Who do you want and where do you want him?”

Mycroft looked over her shoulder, taking in the closed bedroom door and his brother, sitting silent and ramrod straight on the edge of the couch. Although the wedding was in two hours, Sherlock still wore pajamas. Stubble on his jaw, untamed curls. And by the snarl on his face, in no mood to be judged.

“Come along, brother mine,” Mycroft said as he offered his hand to his brother. Sherlock stared at Mycroft’s hand, ignored it and grudgingly rose from the couch.

“Let us go to Mummy’s. I shall make us tea or something stronger if you prefer, and we will get you ready for your big day.”

“Yes. Fine. Good,” Sherlock said as he walked out of the hotel suite, leaving his garment bag and toiletries for Mycroft to carry. “But if I still hate him after the wedding, I’m getting a divorce.”

\----

 

Mycroft switched on BBC 3, hoping the classical music would settle Sherlock’s anxiety. The piano sonata floated through the rented Mercedes, but Mycroft doubted his brother heard a note. Sherlock’s knee bounced in time to his thoughts, while his fingers drummed a different beat on the armrest. He held his breath and blew it out in long, slow streams. Over and over.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Mycroft asked, keeping his eyes on the road instead of his brother. Sherlock remained silent, his head turned away, eyes staring at the passing land.  “If you would like me to take you to the airport, I will.”  

Mycroft reached his hand across the console, hesitating, not sure what he would do even if Sherlock didn’t bat it away. He patted his brother’s leg, meant to be reassuring. For all that they had learned as children, outward demonstrations of affection and compassion weren’t part of their lessons.

Sherlock’s face remained turned away. When he shook his head, the movement was almost imperceptible. A few errant curls shook, catching Mycroft’s attention.

“What if I fail, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his voice small and quivering.

Mycroft’s heart ached for his brother, who pretended he’d mastered his emotions. Today he sounded vulnerable, like he had when Mummy explained that Redbeard wouldn’t be coming home. Or when Mycroft left for boarding school, and they stood on the train platform--brothers, seven years apart, and the six year old losing his best friend to the train. Or when Sherlock called him, barely understandable through his sobs, to say that he was on his own in America; he’d grabbed the few things he owned and left his ‘forever love’ in bed with someone else. 

“Sherlock…” 

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing anything he or Mycroft had said, never turning from the window.

Mycroft pulled the car off the road, unbuckled his seat belt and faced Sherlock.

When Sherlock turned to look at him, his red-rimmed eyes showed the uncertainty he couldn’t put word to. 

“Sherlock, you and John have lived together for months. You are not children. You know what you’re doing…” 

“But, I was sure once before, and Joshua…” he said, the words strangled by fear.

“Joshua was a fool,” Mycroft spit out. “What he did to you, betraying you by sleeping with someone else...that wasn’t _you_ Sherlock. That was him. And I can tell you—John Watson is no fool. I _tried_ to scare him away. To play on his emotions, to do the right thing for you.” 

Sherlock knew what Mycroft had tried, kidnapping John, threatening him, bribing him, all to leave before he could shatter Sherlock as Joshua had done years before. Mycroft had found Sherlock, broke and broken, strung out and too far gone to care. He scooped up his baby brother and tended to his wounds, just as he’d done at their childhood home. But this time, healing kisses and plasters couldn’t make it all better; time and rehab would be the medicine. 

“That day, John said that you and he are partners, that you would make decisions together. He is committed to you.” 

Sherlock nodded, a spark in his flat eyes. “Yes. He said, ‘We’re partners, Sherlock. We decide things together. If we don’t stick together, we’ll fall apart.’” 

Also, he’d also said that Mycroft was a fucktard, but Sherlock thought perhaps it would be best to keep that piece of information to himself right now. 

Mycroft looked in Sherlock’s eyes. They seemed clearer, less weepy. Less afraid.

“John Watson is no fool, Sherlock. He adores you. Everyone knows it from the way you look at each other. How you kept it secret so long at the school, I will never know.”

Sherlock listened to his brother, who mostly talked out of his ass, but today he’d been blessed with clarity and common sense. Also, he didn’t have much choice but to listen; Sherlock couldn’t walk away because they were locked in the Mercedes.

“Yes. I have seen that look,” Sherlock looked at Mycroft and nodded in understanding.

“Excellent. Now…”

“It’s the way Greg looks at you. He adores you for some reason,” Sherlock’s observation hung in the air. Mycroft’s squeak of denial buoyed Sherlock’s deductions.

“Hold on. You’ve been smiling at nothing. Bounce in your step. Hardly insult me. Relaxed shoulders. Unnerved around him,” Sherlock’s words ran together as he thought out loud.

“You’re in love with him,” Sherlock deduced, his knees bouncing with excitement not fear no.  “And you didn’t know he felt the same way. Brilliant.” For all his observation skill, he missed Mycroft’s embarrassment.

“Sherlock, we’re not…”

Deducing Mycroft was win/win: it kept his mind off his own nerves, and Mycroft hated it. He knew when his brother was lying. The tell-tale signs were all there: red flush on his ears, plucking at imaginary lint and one no-fail tell: When Mycroft lied, his nostrils flared and wiggled like a bunny. Always had.

“Oh, but you are,” Sherlock said. “Are you sleeping together?” Rhetorical question to rattle Mycroft.

“Sherlock! You may not speak to me…” Nostrils flared but no wiggling. So. Intimate but not intercourse.

Sherlock sat back in his seat, smiling because he now had something to think about besides his own past. Mycroft huffed at Sherlock’s intrusion into his privacy, snapped in the seat belt and returned to the road.

Radio3’s interview with a pianist raising money for school music programs filled the car, distracting the brothers on the remaining drive. When Mycroft pulled into the driveway, Sherlock leapt out of the car, once again leaving his garment bag and toiletries for Mycroft.

Just as he hit the front steps, Sherlock called over his shoulder.  “You should be, you know. Having sex.” Through the front door and gone. The words floated back to Mycroft, mingling with the observation that Greg was fond of him.

He’d told Sherlock that the sorrows of the past belonged to the past. It was time he listened to his own advice.

 

\---                                              

 

With Mummy and Father in the back garden supervising the catering staff (When I say supervising…) and Greg curled up in an arm chair engrossed in “The Secrets of Combustion,” no one was left to pay attention to Sherlock’s antics. Sherlock threw himself into the task of becoming Mr. Holmes-Watson.

Lazy, hot shower (How did my soap and shampoo bottle get into Mummy’s shower?) followed by a careful shave with his straight razor (This  _too_ ?!). Sherlock towel dried his curls, and with a brief thought to taming them (…but John loves my curls) added a dollop of foam mousse (Makes Curly Hair Curlier!) and scrubbed his fingers through his hair with a light shake of his head. Perfect. The same way he’d styled his hair for the concert at JAMMS in January, when they sang Pearl Jam and he’d looked at John and knew in that moment that he would marry this man and forever would mean forever and one more day.

Sherlock bounded out of the bathroom in his tailored black trousers and white dress shirt with 30 minutes remaining before the wedding. No tie. Never a tie. Greg had fallen asleep in the chair with Mummy’s book tented on his chest. He’d wager that Greg had no idea Mummy had written it. And who naps at 1:30 in the afternoon? Ridiculous. No wonder these people get nothing done.

Coffee. The rumble from Sherlock’s stomach reminded him that occasionally the transport needs fuel. As he reached for a mug in the cabinet, the buttons on his shirt pulled. John had specifically chosen this shirt for him for the wedding. Sherlock frowned and shook his head in wonder. You’d think the man could choose a shirt that would fit him.

He poured a cup for Mycroft, leaving it black as he preferred it. It seemed in bad form to torment his brother with sugar for the sole purpose of watching him take a large sip of his black coffee and grimace at the hidden sweet. On second thought…

“Thank you for the coffee, brother. Have you sweetened it?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Would I do that?” Sherlock smiled, daring his brother to believe him. Mycroft pushed the mug away before he could be tricked again. Sherlock slid it back across the counter to Mycroft, but before either could respond, Mummy pushed open the kitchen door from the garden.

“Boys! The florist dropped these off. I thought they would never get here!” Mummy placed the square box on the counter and wiggled off the top.

“Is it safe for us to come in?” Molly called from the foyer.

“John?” Sherlock broke away from Mummy, who was trying to pin flowers on his shirt.

“Sherlock?” John pushed past Molly, tradition be damned. He needed to see Sherlock, to undo any damage from this morning.

They collided in the living room, arms reaching, hands pulling in closer. Lips kissing and whispering.

I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean, I didn’t really want to go home, I want to be with you, cried when you left, don’t leave me, never, I couldn’t. I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you. You are everything. Love. You. Marry me today. Yes. Yes. Oh God. Yes.

Through half-closed lids, Greg watched his friends melt into one. The pain and tears meant nothing compared to the forgiveness and love. He pretended to be asleep, not wanting to intrude on a profoundly intimate moment. His eyes slid to the doorway to the kitchen, where Mycroft stood sipping at his coffee. At that moment, Mycroft’s feelings for his brother were written on his face, in his smile and the joy in his eyes. 

Mycroft’s eyes met Greg’s, whose smiles now matched. “If you two are sorted,” Mycroft said to the grooms, who listened to not one word, “I’m going to ready myself for the ceremony.” Sherlock and John, locked together in whispers and kisses, did not move. 

“Er, me too,” Greg said, unfolding himself from the chair and following Mycroft upstairs. At the landing, he reached for Mycroft’s hand and pulled him into Sherlock’s old bedroom, closing the door behind them. 

“You’re a good brother,” Greg said, wrapping Mycroft into his arms. “Sherlock’s lucky to have you.” He turned his head so he could look into Mycroft’s face. With a steadying breath he said, “ _I’m_ lucky to have you.” A soft, gentle kiss. Sweet. Filled with promise. 

“I believe you have that backward, Gregory,” Mycroft said, resting his forehead against Gregory’s. “It has been so long, too long, since I have had a friend like you.” 

Mycroft brushed his lips over Gregory’s once, then again more deeply. More fully. More needy. 

“I don’t want to be your friend Mycroft,” Gregory whispered between kisses. “I want to be more.” Mycroft tried to move his head, but Greg’s hands, cupping his jaw—thumbs stroking his cheeks, wouldn’t allow him to move. “I dunno what happened before. I know someone hurt you. But I won’t. I could really love you, Mycroft Holmes. And that’s not the wedding talking.” 

Gregory nuzzled against Mycroft’s nose, before lowering his lips, trailing them over Mycroft’s. Mycroft nodded, but if it were to the kiss or the feelings, Greg wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. Being together here, right now, mattered. Sharing this…

A hard rap on the door broke them apart. “We should be downstairs any minute,” Violet called through the door. 

“Gotta get dressed,” Greg mumbled, his eyes still closed, forehead resting on Mycroft’s. 

“Should get my suit on,” Mycroft said, unaware he had dressed hours ago for the wedding. He still felt the smolder of Greg’s lips on his. 

“Yeah. Should…” 

Another loud knock, “Father and I will be in the garden. Molly is sorting John. Mycroft, you are needed downstairs with your brother.” 

“Yes, Mummy,” Mycroft called, and with one more kiss, left Greg to dress.

 

\---

 

Even the sun brought a gift for the wedding; its rays danced through the tree boughs, and the breeze cooled them. The caterers rearranged the chairs from the party the night before, facing them toward where John and Sherlock would exchange their vows. Afterward, they would redistribute the chairs to the tables for the party.  
   
The Hudsons arrived, the children at full speed and the parents at much less. Honey lagged further behind, explaining to Molly that she’d slept poorly and that getting Kiera ready had zapped her energy.  
   
“I’m just glad to sit,” she said, lowering herself into the metal folding chair, holding Molly’s arm for support. “I think Liam Eoin is getting revenge for his name. He’s been sitting on my sciatic nerve, and I can’t get comfortable.” Molly brought her a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher Mycroft had made the night before. Honey smiled and thanked her, wishing for the world she could pop two ibuprofen for the muscle twinges.

  
Unsure what to say to each other, Mycroft and Molly stood near the cottage waiting in silence for the processional to begin. Molly had avoided a white dress for the occasion, choosing a coral eyelet dress, with a deep scoop neck. She held up her ivy and white violet bouquet, catching the flirty scent with a smile.  
   
“Thank goodness it’s not a corsage,” Molly quipped. “This dress’ neckline isn’t made for that!”   
   
Mrs. Hudson turned to Mycroft to pin his white violet and ivy boutonniere on his charcoal grey bespoke suit. He attempted to take it from his mother, who tapped his hand away. “Mykie, let me pin this on your jacket. Stand still, dear.” He gave in to her strong will. Thank God he hadn’t inherited her bossy personality. With the flowers firmly in place, Mummy picked up her florist’s box and moved on to the grooms.  
   
John and Sherlock stood at the back of the grassy aisle. Their hands together. Their eyes together. Not speaking words, not looking at any other person.  
   
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, dears, but I have your boutonnieres,” Mummy said as she pounced on them, sounding too excited to be sorry. The grooms’ combined blue violets and white violets.  She pinned Sherlock’s onto his white shirt, clucking over the tugging buttons.   
   
Mummy turned to John and whispered, “Thank you for making my baby happy.” She kissed his cheek and pinned John’s on. “I love you, my sons,” Mummy said to them as she placed John’s hands atop Sherlock’s. Picking up the florist’s box, she walked up the aisle to sit next to Father.  
   
Turning in her seat, she faced Greg and motioned for him to lean closer. “This is for you, dear,” she said as she pinned a white violets boutonniere on Greg’s shirt. She smiled as if she had a secret and turned back toward Father just as the music began. 

The Priest nodded to the musicians, and the cello and violin bowed the first few notes of the processional. Honey recognized it immediately. John and Sherlock chose a beautiful song of love and happiness from the musical,  ** _Rent_**. Mummy and Father, who both also loved West End shows, knew it immediately.   
   
The young cantor’s sweet, pure voice sang:   
   
   
 _Live in my house, I'll be your shelter_  
Just pay me back  
With one thousand kisses  
Be my lover and I'll cover you,  


 _(_[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1N4jOSR3-Y ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1N4jOSR3-Y%20%20) )  
  
The small group stood as Molly and Mycroft walked up the aisle and took their respective places.

From the back of the brief aisle, John looked at Sherlock and said, “I love you, honey.”  
   
Sherlock lowered his head slightly to meet John’s lips. “Always. And then one more day.” He joined hands with John and they walked toward the Priest.  
   
 _I think they meant it_  
When they said you can't buy love  
Now I know you can rent it  
Ain’t no lease you are my love  
On life, all my life  
  


When they reached the top of the aisle, both grooms kissed Mummy and shook Father’s hand. They greeted the Priest, who began the traditional ceremony. He’d barely finished the welcome before Honey and Siobhan cried in happiness. At this rate their tissue supply wouldn’t out to the end.  
   
John held onto Sherlock’s hand. Three Continents Watson he was. Never going to settle down. No one would tie him to one place. Then Sherlock happened. John’s smile spoke happiness. One squeeze of his hand and John knew Sherlock was reading his mind. “I will never tie you down, John,” the hand said, “I will fly with you wherever you wish to go.” John returned the light squeeze to say, “Always.”

Greg watched, smiling broadly. This was the first wedding he’d been to since his divorce. He’d been cynical and cruel at the time, telling whomever would listen that true love was a lie, a fairy tale told by idiots. Six months ago, he’d denied that two men could love each other. Today, watching his two friends commit their futures to each other, he knew with all of his heart that the fairy tale was true. Mycroft caught his eye, and they exchanged grins. At that moment, he knew he could love Mycroft in that same way.

After the first hymn, the Priest said, “John and Sherlock have asked to speak. John?”  
   
John turned to face Sherlock and held both of his hands. “Sherlock, I chose the processional song for you. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. You found me, and you loved me. I’m better with you. Because of you.”  
   
John sang a capella,   
   
 _I've longed to discover_  
Something as true as this is,   
If you're cold and you're lonely  
You've got one nickel only  
When you're worn out and tired  
When your heart has expired  
Oh lover, I’ll cover you.  
   
He kissed the back of Sherlock’s hand when he finished singing. The Priest turned to Sherlock to speak.  
   
“John, I chose the wedding flowers with deliberate thought. The blue violets represent fidelity. I will always be faithful to you. But you already know that. The white violets are the most important to me. White violets mean take a chance on happiness. Alone was what I had. Alone protected me. Protected my heart. But you changed that. You made me want to take a chance. And I am better with you. Because of you.”

Greg swallowed hard as he listened. Alone was what I had, Sherlock had said, but he risked his heart and look where he and John were now. Greg had been alone for two years—more than two years if he were to count the time he was married and miserable. Alone and profoundly lonely, but with Mycroft, he felt alive, as cliché as it was. Lost in thought, he fingered the delicate flowers pinned to his shirt. The same flowers Mycroft had been given.

Take a chance on happiness, Greg repeated to himself.

He caught Mycroft concentrating on him instead of the ceremony. Greg touched his white violets and pointed to Mycroft’s. Yes. I’ll take a chance on happiness, Greg said wordlessly.  Will you? 

_“William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ , will you take  _John Hamish Watson_ to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”  
   
With a hitch in his voice, Sherlock answered, “I will.”  
   
 _“John Hamish Watson,_ will you take _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_  to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”  
   
“Yes. I mean, yes. I…” John’s voice cracked, a small sob escaping. He reached out to hold Sherlock’s hand, which trembled as much as John’s.  
   
Molly whispered the words to John, who took a deep breath and stood straight. “I will.”  
   
The grooms looked into each other's eyes, holding hands and exchanging promises and gold bands. Each man thought about what brought him to this cottage’s back garden in West Wittering on June 21, 2014 professing their devotion in front of people who loved them and whom they loved.   
   
John said a prayer of thanks for Mary Morstan who broke their engagement. God, he’d hated her for it, but she was right. He’d been a shit boyfriend, breaking her heart by cheating. And it brought him to Sherlock and today.   
   
Sherlock had protected his heart for years. He drifted through his big house and his little life, never noticing the empty spaces. Until the night he poured a drunken man into bed. He was nothing special but everything special. Who loved him for who he was and what he wasn’t. John. His John.   
   
“Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”

The recessional song rang out. They’d chosen the same song as the processional, but this time the upbeat version. John and Sherlock kissed once more in front of their friends, then held hands and walked down the short aisle. John’s grin captured each friend. What caught Greg’s attention was Sherlock’s smile. 

Sherlock radiated pure joy. Everything about his body. How his eyes crinkled. The way he held John’s hand, as if John anchored him so he wouldn’t float away. In the five years Greg had known Sherlock, working together each day, he had never seen him this happy.

Their friends gathered around the grooms, hugging and sniffling. Kissing and offering best wishes. Speaking with Matt Hudson was the best way for Mycroft to steel himself against the others’ emotions. Feelings were messy, dirty. Like legwork. Not really his area. Then his eyes found Greg still seated, his face hidden in a handkerchief. 

The pull at Mycroft’s heart, the small cold in his belly seeing Greg in pain. He wanted to gather him up and hold him. To squeeze his hand and whisper soothing words so Greg would know he was loved, as true and pure as this.  
   
Wait. What?  
   
Mycroft’s knees buckled at the realization. He realized too late that he’d been staring agape at Greg.  
   
‘You ok?’ Greg mouthed, looking worried.  
   
Mycroft nodded, glad to be too far away to talk because he would be unable to put into words what he felt. Greg’s smile grew, which didn’t help the fluttering in Mycroft’s belly or the racing heartbeat. He turned back to Matt and asked a question about the children and listened intently to the answer.  

Greg watched Mycroft so relaxed with this man he’d met only last night. Laughing at the father’s story, picking up Kiera, and positioning her on his shoulders. Greg’s heart swelled with affection. Mycroft, whose middle held a few extra pounds, whose hair thinned on the top. Stuffy old Mycroft Holmes, who made Greg giggle when they were together. Reserved, steady Mycroft, who looked so beautiful on his knees in front of Greg that night in the moonlit kitchen. 

He suspected that his smile was as wide as Sherlock’s.   
   
“What has made you so happy?”  
   
Greg pulled himself out of his daydream; Mycroft stood next to him, hesitantly reaching for Greg’s hand and weaving their fingers together.  
   
At 44, Greg knew something about the world--what life offered and what love felt like. Here, now, those two collided in a way that made him feel joyous and light headed. The feeling of Mycroft’s fingers against his, the pressure and warmth short-circuited his brain.  
   
“You. You’ve made me so happy,” Greg said before he could edit his thought. Dammitdammitdammit. He didn’t mean to say that out loud.  
   
Mycroft blinked under furrowed eyebrows.   
   
Oh shit, Greg thought, that was the wrong thing to say, he doesn’t know what to say, it was too forward, and--  
  
“Yes, me also,” Mycroft answered, gently squeezing Greg’s fingers. “You make me happy, too.”  
   
When had they turned toward each other? When had their bodies come so close that they breathed the same air?  
   
“Would it be alright with you…” Mycroft hesitated, “May I…I’d like to kiss you.”

“God yes,” Greg sighed. “But your mum and dad?”  
   
Mycroft closed the distance between their lips, kissing Greg slow and gentle; he broke away before it became much more. With parents and friends and a Priest milling about, this wasn’t the time or place, but he couldn’t bear to move his hand from Greg’s body.  
   
“After the reception, are we leaving?” Greg’s breath was heavy with need. 

“As soon as feasibly possible. I reserved a hotel suite in London,” Mycroft said, his hand resting over Greg’s heart. Was it Greg’s he felt or his own beating so hard?  
   
The photographer pulled Mycroft away for family pictures. Each groom. The two grooms. The grooms and attendants. The Holmes family plus their newest member. Pictures in front of the wild roses. Near a copse of trees. Sitting. Standing.   
   
John grabbed the Hudson family for a photograph. Honey fixed her make up (the smears from crying!) and struggled out of her seat.   
   
“Yikes!” she said as she grabbed her back. “I sat down for too long!” She massaged her lower back with one hand as she walked, holding Kiera’s hand with the other. The family gathered around the grooms, and unable to tone down their energy, mugged and hugged through the photographs. 

Honey called Greg into the photo, “the JAMMS family!” she called, and Greg dragged Mycroft along, against his protests. “But you _are_ part of the JAMMS family!” Honey added. She pulled Mycroft into a side hug, and even as the photographer clicked the shutter, Honey knew this photo would be enlarged and framed for over their fireplace.  
    
The caterers strolled the garden, offering champagne and sparkling cider as well as canapés to the guests as they stood and chatted. A playlist from John’s iPhone and Bose speakers replaced the musicians and the Hudson children managed to convince Molly Hooper to dance. She taught Sean how to swing dance; his face was red with embarrassment and excitement not only from the dancing, but from the attention of a beautiful, older woman.  
   
Shortly after the guests were seated and the meal served, Greg noticed the two seats of honor were unoccupied.  
   
“Shagging?” Greg nodded with a smile at the empty chairs.  
   
“I believe they have begun their honeymoon early,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock mentioned something about their hotel this evening and getting an early start in the morning for Greece.”  
   
“Smart men. They’ll need all the privacy they can get,” Greg laughed. As Mycroft’s eyes grew wider in surprise, he rethought what he’d said. “Oh my God, no, I meant, you know just privacy, being alone, not having people hear, not that they’re noisy or oh God I’m making this worse.” A flush crept up his neck; he’d spent the past two days so hard, that now his every thought was about riotous, raucous fucking. But he hadn’t intended to let that slip out.

Mycroft laughed at him. “When did you begin using the word _shag_?”  

Shag. Just the  _word_  rocked Greg. “I like the sound of it. It’s classier than its American counterpart.” His eyes still said _fuck_. _you and me. fucking._  “So uh, you said you have a hotel for tonight?”  
   
“Yes, in London. I reserved a suite, **_and_** I checked on it. No one has cancelled or altered it. We can check in any time after…” Mycroft checked his watch for the time, “after now.” His voice cracking as Greg’s hand stroked his thigh under the table. “Yes. After now.”  
   
“We should probably pack and apologize for leaving early,” Greg said, his voice thick with want. He trailed his fingers up and down Mycroft’s thigh, moving further inward with each stroke.  
   
Mycroft’s voice cracked as he tried to agree.  
   
Greg excused himself to finish packing. Mycroft waited for him to return before he went inside. It was safer if they weren’t in the house together. Alone.  
   
Mycroft packed his clothes and tidied his bed. Looking around his childhood room, he tried to think of anything he wanted to take back with him. He considered the photo album from school, with the pictures of him and Christopher, or the mementos in the fish bowl. No, he would follow his advice to Sherlock. Leave the past to the past and give the future its full chance.  
   
He found Greg’s suitcase sitting next to the pile of shoes by the front door. He placed both pieces of luggage in the Mercedes he’d rented earlier that morning and returned to the party to offer their regrets.  
   
The Hudsons and Molly were also preparing to leave. The Hudsons were heading directly to the airport for an overnight flight to Orlando. Molly would be staying in West Sussex for the night, then would meet up with a tour to Italy the next morning.  
   
“I wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” Honey said to Mummy and Father as she rubbed her lower back. “But truthfully, I can’t wait to get home and sleep in my own bed. The hotel bed hurts my back! I’m so tired and baby Liam isn’t making this any easier.” The bags under her eyes and the exhaustion in her voice underscored her words.  
   
Kisses and hugs all around. Promises to get together for dinner at the Hudsons’ when the Jesup Arts people were back home. Mycroft walked them to their cars and said his goodbyes.   
   
Mummy refused Greg’s offer to help clean. “The caterers’ will do that,” Mummy chided as Greg picked up a stack of plates.   
   
With more hugs and promises to visit soon, Mycroft walked to the car with his Father. Mummy held Greg back for one last hug.  
   
“I’m so happy to have met you, Greg. You make Mycroft happy. Thank you. And maybe next year, you’ll come back here for your wedding.” She squeezed him a little harder and kissed his cheek.  
   
Greg pulled back from the hug and said, “You know?”  
   
“What, that my son is gay? Of course I do. I’m old, not blind,” she laughed. “I always thought if he wanted to discuss it, he would bring it up. Until that time, it’s not my business.”  
   
One last squeeze, and she said, “Please take care of my baby. He doesn’t know he needs it, but he does.” and she released him.   
   
They waved as the car pulled out of the driveway and headed to London.  
   
“I see Mummy cornered you again,” Mycroft said, with a hint of embarrassment in his voice.  
   
“No, it was fine,” Greg said, resting his hand on the back of Mycroft’s head. His fingers played with Mycroft’s hair. “She loves you a great deal, and she worries about you. And, she knows about us.”  
   
Mycroft’s back stiffened, and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.  
   
“When you want to talk about it, she’ll listen. But she asked me to take care of you. Your mum likes me,” Greg preened. At his age, it was funny how much that meant to him.  
   
Mycroft stared at the road as he drove up the A3. The radio’s Saturday evening programming included the BBC Proms. Murray Gold’s music from series 1 of _Doctor Who_ provided a background soundtrack to Mycroft’s thoughts. Greg watched the scenery pass by and occasionally texted obnoxious, lewd messages to John. He sang along, as much as he could to music with no words.   
   
“What is this music?” Mycroft asked with a frown. “It’s not proper classical music.”   
   
“It’s _Doctor Who_. You know. Bad Wolf? The Doctor’s theme.” Greg tried to bite back the actual word ‘duh’.  
   
Clearly, that did not dispel Mycroft’s confusion.   
   
“Please tell me you’ve seen _Doctor Who_.” Greg laughed, knowing Mycroft was putting him on. Every single Brit grew up watching _Doctor Who_. It was part of the Magna Carta.  
   
“Never once.”  If Mycroft’s haughty tone suggested the show was beneath him, Greg failed to notice. He launched into a fervent explanation of the show taking the rest of the hour-long drive, covering the history, the 12 incarnations (or 12 + 1), the locations in Cardiff…  
   
“Oh Mycroft, how far are we from Cardiff? It’s only like two hours right? We should go, and I can show you where they film, and where Torchwood is, and Bad Wolf Bay--”  
   
Mycroft pulled the Mercedes to the curb in front of the Rubens Hotel near Buckingham Palace. With its ivy-filled window boxes and cloth overhang shades, it seemed to Greg more of a grand Victorian home than a hotel. The doorman greeted them, holding the car door open first for Mycroft and then rounding to Greg’s door. With the luggage sorted and the car valet parked, Mycroft showed Greg inside. With its wood paneled guest services desks and crystal chandelier, this historic hotel reminded Greg of Mycroft. Traditional and elegant in a world of contemporary and casual.  
   
The desk staff greeted Mycroft by name, welcoming him back. From their smiles and warmth, Greg wondered how often Mycroft traveled to London.  
   
“We have your regular room for you, Mr. Holmes,” the guest services manager said. “Since you were last here, we’ve upgraded the suites with key code access. You’ll find your codes written on these cards. Mr. Holmes. Mr. Lestrade,” she said as she handed each of them a folded card.   
   
When the card touched Greg’s hand, he could feel the flush creep up his face. A hotel in the actual room Mycroft booked. No snafus. No prior commitments cutting short their time. No parents interrupting their privacy. Just Mycroft and him. In a hotel room. Together. Suddenly, it was _very_ hot in the lobby.  
   
Greg’s cock throbbed at the thought of being alone with Mycroft. God, if he kept thinking of Mycroft. Alone. Together. Naked. Fucking. He’d come right here. And he really, _really_ needed to. Soon. Or he’d explode.

They crossed the glossed marble tile floor to the elevators (“Lifts,” Mycroft corrected him) and Mycroft pressed the knob for the 4 th floor. 

Greg’s tongue moistened his lips, as he watched Mycroft study his phone. Alone in the lift. So easy to hit the emergency stop button. Take what he needed. Right here. Right now. Kiss. Hard. Demanding. Teeth and bites. Hands. Pressing. Pushing. Stroking. Until. Until. 

Mycroft would hate that though. He would require a certain level of privacy and decorum, Greg knew without being told. He’d have to restrain himself for a few minutes more.   
   
In his peripheral vision, Mycroft studied Greg, who prowled the lift’s tight interior, an animal studying its prey. Mycroft steadied his breathing, knowing what Greg wanted. What _he_ wanted. He could smell Greg's need mixed with his own. ‘I… ** _we_** must hold firm until we are alone in the room,’ he reasoned with the smallest part of his mind still working. It would do no one any good if he were to kiss Greg here. To back him against the lift wall, to force his hands over his head and brace them there and begin kissing at Greg's neck and slowly brush his lips down every inch of his chest to the downy hair beneath his navel and...  
   
Every bit of self-control Mycroft possessed went toward not taking Greg. As he looked at his lover’s face, he saw that Greg was losing the same battle.  

As the lift door slid open, Mycroft grabbed Greg roughly and pulled him into a kiss, messy and desperate.  

"I need to touch you," Mycroft whispered, in case the security camera in the lift also recorded sound. 

"Fuck," Greg said between kisses, his hands roaming Mycroft’s body. "So much. Where's the fucking room?"

Their suite was mercifully close to the elevator. Mycroft fumbled with the key code; shaking with anticipation, his fingers tapped the wrong numbers. Greg pressed against Mycroft's back, pretending to look over his shoulder. What he wanted was for Mycroft to feel Greg’s cock grind against his ass. To know what Greg wanted. 

“Do you want me to try,” Greg asked. With his mouth close to Mycroft's ear, he brushed his lips against the sweet spot on his neck. To see what would happen.    
   
Mycroft moaned as his body shuddered and pushed back against Greg.  "You're not making this easier, Gregory.” He tried again to key in the code.   
   
“My hands are a little steadier than yours,” Greg said. “Show me the code.”   
   
Access code 5625. Still pressed against Mycroft’s back, Greg slid his palm around Mycroft's waist. With so few suites on this floor, Greg took the chance no one would see him palm Mycroft’s cock, thick and responsive under Greg’s hand. The electricity surged from Greg’s hand to his own erection. 

Mycroft turned his head to breathe in Greg, to kiss him as their bodies crushed back to front.

“Want you,” Greg mewled between kisses. Mycroft nodded and brushed his thumb against Greg's cheek.   
   
Greg paused biting Mycroft’s neck long enough to shakily key in the four digits. He pushed the door inward and allowed Mycroft through. Hanging the _do not disturb_ sign on knob, Greg pushed the door shut with his foot. 

Finally.

Greg had waited for this moment for almost two weeks after Mycroft’s blow job had changed his reality. They'd been apart because Greg was with his daughter. Then, he had been so hard on the plane as he stroked Mycroft under the blanket. Then Mummy, bless her heart, cockblocked them every chance she had. 

This was their night.   
   
“Gregory I ... I haven't been with anyone in quite some time. I may not be what you expect,” Mycroft whispered. He wouldn’t meet Greg's eyes.   
   
"My." He put his finger under Mycroft's chin and lifted it so their eyes could meet. "Before this spring I didn't understand how two men could be together. But when I met you, everything I knew about relationships changed. Everything I _wanted_ changed. So what I expect is to make love with Mycroft Holmes. Is that okay?  
   
As his answer, Mycroft kissed Greg, not holding back. He controlled the kiss, nipping Greg's lips, twisting their tongues as they met. His hands gripped Greg’s ass, kneading through the khaki fabric.   
   
“Holy fuck, My,” Greg broke their kiss just long enough to say. “Where the fuck did _that_ come from? That was _amazing_.” 

Mycroft’s lips were swollen. Wet. Yes, more, please. Greg pushed Mycroft against the wall with his palm. “Take off your jacket,” he demanded.   
  
Mycroft didn't question. He stripped off the jacket and dropped it on the floor.   
   
Greg grabbed Mycroft's arms—unencumbered by the jacket—and slammed them over his head. Holding them in place. Demanding more kisses.  
  
“Keep them there,” Greg growled as he released Mycroft’s arms, reaching for his tie. “Silk?” A nod. “Good. It won’t hurt you then. Do you love it?”  
   
“No. I hate it.” Mycroft’s breathing quickened. He meant to say, ‘God. Please. Do whatever you want.’  
    
Greg intended to restrain Mycroft’s hands behind his back. To make this powerful man be submissive to him. But when he yanked Mycroft's tie out of his suit vest and pulled him into a kiss, the thought disappeared in a tidal wave of desire. It was powerful and messy, bumping teeth and noses as they ground and kissed and kneaded. 

Without hesitation, Greg dropped to his knees in front of Mycroft. 

He kissed the bulge straining at Mycroft’s fly, biting through the fabric until he was more primal than rational. Greg unzipped Mycroft's trousers and reached through the opening in the silk boxers to ease his cock out. His tongue darted between his lips as he stared and grabbed at his own aching erection through his trousers.  
    
“Jesus Fucking Christ, you're huge,” Greg said in shock, wrapping his fingers reverentially around Mycroft’s hard cock. “I haven’t…I mean, this is the first time I’ve _seen_ yours…It’s just so fucking hot…” 

Mycroft moaned from deep in his throat. He twisted his fingers in Greg’s hair. This was no time for talk. 

Still on his knees, Greg leaned back and looked up at Mycroft. His tongue darted between his lips as he thought of taking this huge cock into his mouth. Flicking his tongue over it. Around it. Especially dragging it through the drops of come leaking from the slit.  
   
“Just... Do what u like done to you,” Mycroft suggested as Greg moved back in closer, wanting to be swallowed down to the hilt until he was engulfed in the warmth of Greg's mouth.   
  
Greg’s fingers fumbled with the belt and fly on Mycroft’s trousers, not cooperating with his need. Mycroft motioned him back and slid off his own boxers and trousers. Greg knelt back and stared unabashedly, stroking his own cock through his trousers.  He was impossibly hard and wanted Mycroft. Want. 

With Mycroft's trousers removed Greg stood and pushed him back against the wall. "I'm not going to bind your hands right now because I need you too fucking much,” he said as he sucked Mycroft's neck, bruising him and then kissing the bruise.  

Mycroft mewled. Moaned. Begged. Greg slid back on his knees and grasped Mycroft’s cock at the base, burying his face in the tight curls. The perfume of it, the floral soap from Mummy's shower, the hint of sweat, the smell of sex. Greg inhaled the scents, cataloging it for always as the scent of Mycroft.  

He wanted to kiss Mycroft's balls, suck on them until he begged for more. Slide his tongue through the slit, lap the come that already wept at the opening. Greg wet his lips and closed them into a small ‘o’, forcing Mycroft to push forward, to push in, to fuck his tight mouth.

Greg heard Mycroft gasped as he forced his way through the lips, and he knew Mycroft was restraining his hips, holding back so he wouldn’t fuck Greg’s mouth too hard. Mycroft’s thickness filled his mouth, but he swallowed him without gagging. Greg pulled almost fully off but then took him in again and again. Coming off long enough to suck Mycroft's balls. To tease them before retaking the cock.  

Never. He could never have thought he would be on his knees, in front of a man, willingly, happily sucking cock. Wanting it. Enjoying it. Waiting for the come to hit the back of his throat. 

Greg unzipped his own trousers and released his cock, allowing only a few tugs before sinking his mouth back onto Mycroft's shaft. 

In the distance Greg heard a phone ring. No no no no NO. Let it go to fucking voice mail. He needed this. More, he **_wanted_** this.  

The ringing stopped. Greg breathed a sigh in relief, until he heard the ping of the voicemail alert.

"Not this time," Greg whispered. He wet his lips and rubbed them over the head of Mycroft’s cock before taking it back into his mouth. Mycroft’s moan hit Greg like an electric shock. His balls throbbed, but the flutter of joy in his stomach meant even more. 

Greg wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s shaft and as he swallowed as much of Mycroft’s cock as he could, he counterstroked to meet his mouth. 

Mycroft’s knees buckled. “I’m so close, Gregory. So close…”

“Come for me, baby. In my mouth. I want…” 

Inside the pocket of Mycroft’s suit jacket, in a puddle on the floor, his cell phone rang. Five. Six. Seven rings. 

Greg pulled off and searched through the jacket’s pockets for the phone, yelling “Fucking Goddamn bullshit. Someone had better be dying.”  He slammed the button to answer. “What?!” 

“Mycroft, it’s Matt Hudson. I didn’t know who else to call. Honey’s in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. We need your help. _ **I**_ need your help.”

  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boutonniere photo is from a gorgeous website: http://dkdesignshawaii.blogspot.com/ you may not believe it, but they're made of clay! stinkin' gorgeous.
> 
> The dress is from a Florida department store, Bealls. http://www.beallsflorida.com/online/london-times-womens-coral-eyelet-panel-dress


	6. Star-Cross'd Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Greg and Mycroft are interrupted at the most inopportune time. Really. Bad. Time. But when a friend needs you, you go and you do whatever has to be done to help out. Even if you don't know the friends very well. And you wind up with two teenagers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly sad to say I've never been to London; I hope I did ok on specifics about the hotel and the tourist items :D If I fudged up, i'd be happy to fix. 
> 
> a huge thanks to Miss_Honey_B on twitter for helping me with the hospital choice.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this...and chapter 7 is quickly coming!
> 
> As always, my heart and love to 221btls. You keep me right.

 …Greg wrapped his hand around Mycroft’s shaft and as he swallowed as much of Mycroft’s cock as he could, he counterstroked to meet his mouth.

Mycroft’s knees buckled. “I’m so close, Gregory. So close…”

“Come for me, baby. In my mouth. I want…” Greg focused on Mycroft’s thick cock, swallowing it as far as he could.

Inside the pocket of Mycroft’s suit jacket, in a puddle on the floor, his cell phone rang. Five. Six. Seven rings.

Greg pulled off and searched through the jacket’s pockets for the phone, yelling “Fucking Goddamn bullshit. Someone had better be dying.”  He slammed the button to answer. “What?!”

“Mycroft, it’s Matt Hudson. I didn’t know who else to call. Honey’s in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. We need your help. I need your help.”

Frustrated, the two men zipped up. Buttoned up. And took the lift to the lobby in silence, not daring to even touch each other for fear of what a spark would ignite.

“One day we’ll finish what we start, won’t we?” Greg smiled at Mycroft as they waited for the valet to bring the rental to the front of the hotel.

“The fault, dear Gregory, _is_ in our stars, not in ourselves…” Mycroft laced their fingers and gently stroked his thumb over Greg’s, releasing it only to get into the car.

Damn stars.

“Yeah. Fate hasn’t been much of a friend to us…”

Mycroft glared at him from behind the steering wheel. “Please, Gregory. Do not tempt Fate. I think the lost plane tickets, cancelled hotel reservations and a friend in the Emergency Room is all I can take.”

“True,” Greg said, still smiling. “But I’m with you. And that’s more than okay.”  He patted Mycroft’s thigh and returned to sending lewd texts to the grooms.

A slow smile creased Mycroft’s face. “Yes. More than okay. But I would be grateful for some alone time with you to finish what we start.” His testicles, heavy from the arousal and interruption, ached. He covertly reached between his legs to rearrange himself.

He glanced at Greg in the front passenger seat, squirming to find a comfortable position as he texted. Same situation then. Best to keep his eyes and thoughts on the road.

\---

The ride to East Surrey Hospital took just under an hour from the hotel; Mycroft pushed his speed to 75mph on the A3, but in the end he realized that following the speed limit would get them to Matt faster than trying to explain to the police why he was ignoring the laws.  

Matt paced at the entrance to the hospital as they pulled up in the rented Mercedes. Back and forth, his path forced the automatic doors to open with each turn. As Greg opened the car door, Matthew launched himself at Greg then Mycroft, pumping their hands and thanking them for coming and apologizing for taking them away from their plans.

"It wasn't anything big," Mycroft said as he disengaged his hand from Matt’s grip.

Greg snorted with laughter as Matt led them into the hospital. “It wasn’t anything big?! That thing is the fucking Loch Ness monster."

Mycroft tried to suppress his own undignified snort with no luck. It took clearing security and finding their way to Honey’s room for the two men to settle.

Pale and washed out, Honey slept in the hospital bed with Kiera snuggled next to her. An IV solution dripped into the tube that entered the back of her hand by the thin needle covered with white hospital tape. In addition to the machine monitoring Honey’s vital signs, a second showed two screens: one recording a heart rate in the 140s and the other low, undulating waves. 

Mycroft stared at Honey, unable to drag his eyes away from the monitors. “Is she alright?” He didn’t know what to do with his hands; he kept them in his trouser pockets to stop from wringing them. This woman was life, fire, passion, laughter, not silence disrupted by beeping. 

“They think so,” Matt whispered calmly but dragged his teeth over his lower lip, wrung his hands, pushed back his bangs that had fallen onto his forehead. The constant movement said more than his words. Fear. “They’re pretty sure she’s not in labor, that the contractions were just Braxton-Hicks. But if she is, we’re so far from home, and…” Matt’s voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes and mouth closed to stop himself from breaking. 

Greg stepped up to Matt and drew him into a hug. “She’s going to be fine,” he said, patting Matthew on the back. “You’ve been through this enough times. Look at the monitors.” Greg released him and faced the monitors. “Her blood pressure is stable, heart rate is good. And the baby is good too, right?” 

Matt nodded. Before Mycroft could ask, Greg explained the belt around Honey’s belly.  “That round sensor reads the baby’s vitals. The heart rate and then the low waves are contractions. That looks stable, too.” 

Matt released a deep breath and unclenched his fist. “The doctor didn’t seem worried, but we’re so far from home and the kids…” 

“My ex was in the hospital several times before Anabelle was born. I know it’s scary, but I would think if either of them were in distress, we’d see it on the monitors.” 

Matt nodded. “They said she might be dehydrated from being outside all day and that can cause contractions. That’s what the IV is for. If it’s false labor, it will help stabilize her.” Another deep breath, then out. Matt had a long night in front of him.

“What can we do to make things easier for you, Matthew?” Mycroft asked. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet room; he lowered it to a whisper. “Could we take the children so that you can focus on your wife?” 

“God, would you really do that?” Matt slumped against the wall. “That would be…if you could take Sean and Siobhan, I can handle Kiera. They’re good kids, but they’re worried and…” 

“Where are they now?” Greg asked, looking around the small room, just realizing they were missing. 

“I sent them to the cafeteria.” Matt turned down the lights in the room and led them out to the corridor that led to the canteen. Greg asked questions about the kids to occupy Matt, but Mycroft remained silent, engrossed in his phone. 

The canteen was like every hospital cafeteria Greg had ever been in; employees in bright patterned scrubs chatting and laughing amid families in pain and grieving. They spotted the two blond heads close together, whispering and playing cards. 

“Hey you two,” Matt said, leaning down and gathering them both into one hug. He dropped a kiss on each head. “Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Holmes are gonna take you with them, so you don’t have to sit here bored.” 

Siobhan fussed, but Matt cut her off. “Bon, I need you to do this. If you’re with them, I can focus on Mama.” She nodded, but Greg spoke teenage girl: twisting hair. Biting nails. He translated that as real worry. 

“We’ll get you some real food and figure out what we’re going to do tonight. Bags?” Greg asked, his hand on Siobhan’s shoulder, rubbing circles on it. 

“Shit. Our bags are at Gatwick,” Matt raised his voice as he threw his hands up in the air. 

“Do not worry about the children, Matthew,” Mycroft said, his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Greg’s a father, and I’m a lawyer. Between the two of us, we can handle anything that happens. We will take care of them. You worry about Honey.”  

Greg gathered the two kids and shepherded them toward the parking lot with Mycroft and Matt following. “Matthew, the Chief Executive for the hospital is a University colleague of mine. I’ve alerted him to your presence. You will be well taken care of.” 

Matt hugged him. “Thank you so much. I can’t ever…” Mycroft patted Matt’s back awkwardly and broke away to open the car.

When they were safely in the car, Sean asked, “Will Mama be okay?” 

It didn’t take his Master’s degree in counseling for Greg to know there was more to this question than Sean voiced. Is my mother going to die? 

“From what I saw, yes, your Mama is okay.” Better to hedge the truth than lie. “I watched the monitors. She doesn’t seem to be in labor, and baby Liam’s heart looked good and safe.” 

“So the baby’s okay, Uncle Greg?” Siobhan asked, not hiding her tears this time. 

“Before my daughter Anabelle was born, my ex-wife had the same thing happen. They call it ‘false labor’, because it feels like contractions but they’re not the kind you need for delivery.” Mycroft listened to Greg talking with the kids; he was _good_ at this. 

Mycroft took charge of the conversation. “It will take us about an hour to get back into the city. Shall we have a proper dinner and find something fun to do?” 

“Ok Uncle Mycroft,” Siobhan agreed. She sounded more relaxed, and curled into the soft, back seat of the Mercedes. 

“Uncle Mycroft?” he asked Greg softly.

Greg shrugged and smiled. “It’s a sign of love and respect. Besides Sherlock and John are uncles, and you’re related to Sherlock. Ipso facto…”

Mycroft wiggled his eyebrows and laughed for the first time since the hotel room. “Oh, speak Latin to me Gregory. It does such terrible things to me.” 

Greg leered at Mycroft. “Cogito ergo sum. Tempus fugit. Et Tu.”

“Excuse me,” Sean interrupted their flirting. “Could you please turn on Radio3? They were playing _Doctor Who_ music before.” 

Mycroft groaned, “You too?!” he said at the same time Greg crowed, “You too?!”  His hand flew to the radio, but the Proms program had ended. To Mycroft’s dismay, it made no difference to the three Whovians. 

Once again on the drive to the hotel, Mycroft was subjected to _Doctor Who_. Partial sentences, interruptions, snippets of re-enacted dialog. He had no idea who Rose Tyler was or what was the last thing the Doctor was going to say to her, but he also knew it was inevitable he would learn. 

As they neared the hotel, Mycroft raised his voice over the tumult in the car. “If I can draw your attention away from your Doctor for a moment, I thought we might get take-away and do some sightseeing.” 

Greg raised his eyebrows in question. He’d assumed, since Mycroft had almost no experience with kids, he’d rather dump them in front of the television than try to navigate London.  This could be fun!

Mycroft read the meaning in his expression. "They're decent children, a bit loud and exuberant, but they adore Sherlock. While that doesn't speak for their taste, it does for their patience." 

“If you think _these_ kids are loud, you don’t wanna be around Anabelle when she’s with her friends!” Greg joked, as they turned their car over to the hotel valet.

“But, I would quite like to meet her,” Mycroft said stiffly, turning to face Greg. 

“I’m just kidding. Of course you’ll meet her when we get back,” Greg said, checking that Sean and Siobhan were still looking in the hotel windows and hadn’t wandered too far from them. “Since the divorce, I haven’t introduced her to anyone,” he said vaguely, not wanting to use the word _girlfriends._ “I think a relationship should be solid before kids are brought in because it can devastate the child if they break up.” Greg’s face tinged pink, but he didn’t look away. 

Mycroft stared into Greg’s eyes. “You think we’re long term? Because, because I also…” 

Greg cradled Mycroft’s cheeks in his hands, and right there on the hotel pavement, in front of London and the two Hudson kids pretending not to watch, he answered Mycroft with a kiss. Soft at first, but when Mycroft’s tongue sought Greg’s, Greg responded with his body, pulling the other man in close. 

Small arms encircled the two men and pressed them together. “I told you, Sean. I told you they were _in love_! You owe me 5 squid!” Siobhan looked up at the men, straining her neck to see their faces in the late afternoon sun. 

“That’s **_quid_** , madam,” Mycroft corrected her, without looking down or looking away from Greg. “You truly do not want him to give you 5 squid.”

“Idiot,” Sean said, snorting at his sister’s malapropism. 

Greg turned to Sean, who’d rounded their other side. “Sean, please don’t call your sister an idiot,” he fussed with a voice still thick with the unspoken ‘I love you.’ 

He turned back to Mycroft, and rested his cheek against the strawberry stubble that scratched at his jaw. Greg’d never felt anything more brilliant or erotic. “Let’s get dinner before I fuck you right here. On the sidewalk. In front of your posh hotel,” he whispered very quietly in Mycroft’s ear. He dropped his arms from the hug; if his painfully hard cock got any friction, he would be lost to stop. 

“You two are worse than Mama and Dad,” Sean complained, trying to drag Siobhan off the two men. “I’m starving, and you’re hugging. Let’s go!” 

The Rubens’ doorman hailed a Black Cab for them, and as the other three piled in, Mycroft told the driver the location. “Poppies, Camden Town.” The kids sat across from each other, leaving Mycroft to sit across from Greg rather than next to him. ‘It is likely for the best,’ Mycroft thought. His body crackled with the need to touch Greg, to be with him. 

Siobhan called out landmarks on the short drive. Buckingham Palace! The Eye! Uncle Greg, what’s that? Do you know? Look at the sign for The Tube! Uncle Mycroft did you grow up here? Did you live in London? Uncle Greg have you been here before? Sean look!

In between fielding Siobhan’s questions, Mycroft texted Matthew. The doctor seemed sure it was false labor. The IV continued, and they would keep her at least overnight for observation. Over. Night. Mycroft sighed, and handed his phone over to Greg to read. 

Greg laughed as he handed the phone back to Mycroft, letting their fingers brush. What else could he do but laugh. “The fault is in our stars,” Greg repeated. 

“I love that book!” Siobhan said, and with the same passion as _Doctor Who_ and landmark-spotting, she launched into the plot of the book and the differences in the movie. 

The taxi pulled in front of the building with the mint green awning that announced Poppies of Camden. “I’ll be back shortly,” Mycroft told the cabbie. Possibly not _that_ shortly; the restaurant _couldn’t_ be as noisy as one 12 year old girl in a small taxi. Good Lord, she was exhausting. 

Siobhan peered through the taxi windows trying to see into the restaurant. “Look! People are dressed like black and white times!” Sean rolled his eyes at the back of his sister’s head. Greg caught it and laughed. Black and white times? The theme of the restaurant was the 1950s. Sheesh.

Mycroft returned to the taxi, carrying a newsprint paper bag. He whispered to the cabbie who headed back toward the hotel. Mycroft settled in the seat next to Sean, who tried to reach into the bag for food. “We can’t eat in the cab; we’ll eat at the next location.” 

The London Eye drew closer, and Siobhan sighed. “I really wanted to go on that, but Kiera wouldn’t go and Daddy wouldn’t leave Mama.” 

Mycroft smiled. “After we eat, we’ll go.” 

Siobhan squee’d, high pitched and happy, and launched herself across to Mycroft, throwing her hands around his neck. 

“Really? Really?” She squeezed him in a bear hug. Greg laughed at Mycroft’s rigid posture which slowly melted as he gave in to her excitement. 

“Bon!” Sean called, looking up from his phone. “Cut it out and sit down. Stop acting like a baby.” 

Chastised, she sat back next to Greg, who shushed Sean. “It’s fine, Siobhan. Your Uncle Mycroft isn’t quite used to kids yet.” 

During the ten minute drive to The Eye from Poppies, Greg told them about Anabelle. He passed around his iPhone so they could see pictures of her. Mycroft studied the photos, swiping sideways to see more. Playing on the high school’s soccer team. Running track. Sticking her tongue out at the camera. Tall. Tanned. Blonde hair, braided and draped over her shoulder. A quintessential Floridian. 

“She’s beautiful,” Mycroft said as he returned the phone. “She looks just like you.” 

“People usually say she looks like her Mom.” Greg stared at the photo, trying to see what Mycroft had seen.

“The shape of her eyes. Her mouth.” Everything that made Gregory beautiful was what he saw in Anabelle.  How she smiled with her whole face, her joy and happiness radiating through the photograph. 

The cabbie slowed and knocked on the plexiglass divider. They piled out of the car, and as Mycroft handed the driver several paper notes, the kids and Greg headed to the County Hall to purchase tickets. 

They met Mycroft on a bench and made themselves comfortable as he handed out the newspaper cones of fish and chips. 

“I managed to get us four tickets for 8pm. I’m not exactly sure how, since it’s only 45 minutes away,” Greg said, biting into a thick chip. 

Sean eyed the food in the newspaper, poking it with his fingers. “Is it safe to eat food out of newspapers? Are they used newspapers?” 

Mycroft laughed, a deep, warm sound, “It’s against health code to serve them in real newspaper any longer. Poppies prints the papers specially with edible ink in case it smears onto the food. But you have my word that you are safe.”  

Sean raised an eyebrow in doubt, but knew better than to be rude. With his forefinger and thumb he pinched off a chunk of the battered, fried fish. Mycroft, Greg, even Siobhan had begun eating without any hesitation, rooting down into the cone for chips, talking with mouths full. Sean sniffed the piece. Inspected it. Sniffed it again. Finally, he gnawed at the smallest corner.

“Hey. This doesn’t suck!” he announced. For some reason, the adults laughed and his sister just said duhhh. Sean didn’t answer; Mama always said don’t talk with your mouth full. 

After they ate (Sean declaring it the best dinner ever!) Mycroft moved them to the queue for The Eye. The line moved slowly as each pod filled. Siobhan and Sean twisted and turned as they waited, looking around, pointing out people and sights that captivated them. Siobhan bounced in place, grabbing Mycroft’s arm, thrilled and scared that it was their turn. With her pure joy and excitement, he barely noticed the 10 points of torture digging into his arm. 

During his almost 45 years, Mycroft avoided children. He preferred the library to recess when he was young and begged out of group projects; as an adult he had no reason to interact with them. But these two. With their greasy fingers unwiped after dinner. Bickering over every decision. Singing. Quoting shows. Hugging. Genuine pleasure, honest excitement, not feigned like adults. Would Anabelle accept him as easily? 

Mycroft and Greg gave the kids free rein on the capsule; as long as they were respectful and well-mannered, they had no reason to keep the kids by their side. 

“God, they’re exhausting,” Greg said, exhaling as he collapsed against the chair in the center of the capsule. 

“Anabelle is different?” Mycroft stood, watching Sean and Siobhan pointing out buildings. 

“When she was younger she was just like this,” Greg measured his words. “Now she’s distant with me. Quiet. And it hurts because when she’s with her friends, she’s full of life. I don’t know if it’s because of the divorce or because she’s 16. We were all pieces of work at that age.”  

Mycroft didn’t understand. At 16, he was in boarding school 10 months of the year, face buried in books. He didn’t drink, smoke, or sleep around like others did. His grades were excellent. Reviews from teachers glowing. He wrote to his parents weekly.

They watched Sean and Siobhan re-enact a Big Ben scene from _Doctor Who,_ to the enjoyment of the other passengers. Laughter and applause. Siobhan made a convincing Rose Tyler. 

As the silence dragged out between them, Greg blurted out in one breath, “I don’t know how to tell Anabelle about us.I don’t know what she’s gonna say.I’m afraid she won’t speak to me again.” 

Mycroft took a step, offering his hand, letting Greg choose whether to accept the public display. Greg slid his hand into his lover’s, twining their fingers and drawing him closer. He rested his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder, watching Siobhan help a new mother pick up a burp cloth that had dropped to the floor. Siobhan caught his eye and waved before handing the cloth to the woman. Greg smiled at her kindness and empathy. 

“Gregory, has your daughter been raised in a family that is homophobic? Where ridicule is tolerated?” Mycroft asked. Still resting his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder, Greg shook his head no. Of course not. 

“You know your child and what to say. She loves you. And she’s young. They’re much more accepting of… differences than we were at their age.” 

Greg nodded, thinking about Mycroft’s words. He’d met so many of his daughter’s friends. They crossed all social lines, with who they were more important than anything else. “How do you know so much about children?” 

Mycroft laughed a deep rumble. “I know nothing about children. But I know you. I can only assume she has your values and principles.”

“You’re hot when you say principles. Reminds me of when we first met,” Greg raised his eye brows. Mycroft’s laugh resounded through the capsule, drawing attention. Greg whispered, “I’d really like to kiss you. Would that be okay?” 

“More than,” Mycroft said and tilted his head to catch Greg’s lips. He loved this, the feel of Greg’s soft whiskers against his lips, the aftershave and soap faint but lingering. He traced his tongue over Greg’s lower lip, mapping it and memorizing it. 

“One day, Gregory Lestrade, I shall get you into a bed, and I shall make love to you for hours. Uninterrupted,” Mycroft whispered in Greg’s ear. 

Greg’s voice caught in his throat. “Will you, now?” His voice quivered and cracked, unable to hide his need. He knew Mycroft felt his body tremble. 

The lights from the skyline flickered and twinkled as the capsule began its slow descent. Mycroft whispered in Greg’s ear, his warm breath brushing Greg’s neck, lighting each nerve on fire. Describing the many ways he would worship Greg’s body, offering prayers with his mouth and tongue. The flush on Greg’s neck and face had nothing to do with embarrassment. 

They stepped apart as their capsule reached the exit platform, willing their bodies to behave. Without luck, at least they were caught up in the throng of people pushing through the doorway, hiding their erections. Sean and Siobhan found them and dragged them toward Waterloo Bridge to walk to the hotel. 

“I heard from your Dad,” Greg chose his words with care, not wanting to add more worry. “Your mum seems to be fine, but they’re going to keep her tonight, so you’re going to stay with Mycroft and me at the hotel.”  

“Cool!” they chorused, making Greg laugh. So much for fear and worry.

“Y’all can hold hands if you want to,” Siobhan said, pointing to their hands that swung between them. “It’s kinda cute. Y’all are like Mama and Daddy.” 

“Siobhan Hudson!” 

“Well, you know you do.” She laughed and turned to her brother, the two discussing the Titanic hitting Buckingham Palace. Mycroft hoped it was a story from a TV show.

Greg smiled. It was kinda cute. And he did want to. They walked slowly across the bridge toward Buckingham Palace. Mycroft explained about the soldiers who stand guard 24 hours a day. They watched as the sentries came to attention, shouldered their weapons, and marched the twenty paces across their post and back again. 

“Perhaps tomorrow we can see the Changing of the Guard,” Mycroft said as they continued to the hotel. “It’s quite a sight.”

All four had slowed by the time they reached the Rubens. The morning, the wedding, the hospital, the walk had taken their toll. The front desk directed them to a little shop where they bought soda and crisps and biscuits and took the lift to the suite Mycroft had booked. 

Neither man thought about getting off the lift earlier, tangled in each other. Promises of more. 

At least not much. 

Mycroft had extra toothbrushes brought up to the room; Greg sent them in to take showers, handing each of them one of his clean t-shirts to wear to bed. They’d deal with clothing in the morning.

The kids settled on the couch to watch television, but cozy from warm showers, their heads nodded. Greg sent them into the bedroom to the king size bed.

He found an electric kettle tucked into a cabinet, and on his way to the bathroom for water, he checked on Sean and Siobhan. They’d shifted to opposite edges of the bed, wrapped in the down comforter and were dead to the world.

Greg smiled at them, but in that moment, his heart hurt for Anabelle. He missed seeing her every day and kissing her good night each evening. He missed her so much that it hurt. But he couldn't regret the divorce.  The divorce brought him here. To Mycroft. 

He sighed, resisted the urge to kiss Sean and Siobhan's heads and flicked off the overhead lights.


	7. I Could Really Use a Wish Right Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the kids asleep in the king-size bed, Mycroft and Greg decide to sit up and talk about the past. Greg wonders why Mycroft is alone, but when Mycroft shares his past, Greg understands exactly how special their relationship is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: idk if it is, but there is talk about a (non-major) character death. Non-canon character. It affects Mycroft profoundly. If you need to skip, please do. This chapter tells more about Mycroft, but not more about plot. 
> 
> any mistakes in information/relevant dates are my bad, and not 221btls. cuz you know why? she's a stinkin' great beta. <3

“God bless those kids,” Greg said, shaking his head in wonder. “They’re already dead to the world.” He came up behind Mycroft, who sat uncharacteristically sprawled on the small couch, and kissed the top of his head. Greg didn’t care what Mycroft said; he thought the small bald spots were sexy as hell.

“How in the world did they go from talking faster than I could listen to sound asleep in 30 seconds?” Mycroft rolled his neck, pressing his head against Greg, encouraging him to continue kissing.

“I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to go to sleep.” Greg covered his mouth as he yawned. “I’m going to take a quick shower and try to wake up. Will you make tea?” he asked as he padded out of the sitting area.

Mycroft plugged in the kettle and arranged the biscuits on a plate from the tea service on the coffee table. A shower sounded good. Warm. Clean. Take off this suit and put on crisp night clothes. He poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep and tried not to think about Greg whistling mindlessly in the bathroom. In the steam. In a towel. Or maybe nothing.

“Ah. Better,” Greg said towel drying his hair as he made his way back to the living area, wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. “Go take one. The tea will wait.”

Mycroft hesitated. Greg draped his damp towel around Mycroft’s neck and pulled him into a kiss. “You’ll feel better. I promise.” Another small kiss and a pat on Mycroft’s bum.

Greg poured tea into one of the china teacups. Black, no sugar. He sat back to enjoy his tea and to Mycroft sing a perfect aria. In Italian.

“Wuh Huh? I’m not sleeping,” Greg jumped as Mycroft tapped his shoulder, sloshing tea onto the saucer.

“Quite a trick, sleeping while holding a cup and saucer.” Mycroft took the cup, emptied the cool tea, and poured another for Greg. He drew the second wingback chair closer to Greg’s before pouring his own cup and settling in.

Bodies relaxing after a long day. Exhaustion nipping at the edges, but kept at bay with good conversation.

“I’m sorry we had to stop what we were doing before,” Greg said, as he reached across the arm of his chair for Mycroft’s hand. Really, really sorry.

“I am, too,” Mycroft turned to look at Greg, the small smile making his face seem softer. “The children were pleasant to be around, if a little loud.”

Biscuits. Another pot of tea. Companionable silence.

“The wedding was nice,” Greg said, rubbing the bottom of Mycroft’s foot with the top of his. “Having it at your parents’ was…interesting.”

“Yes. Quite. I would never have expected Sherlock to stand for the formality of a wedding,” Mycroft added. “Or being at my parents’. Our Doctor Watson must be a powerful influence to change Sherlock.”

“Nothing like going home to see how much you’ve changed,” Greg agreed. He stopped his foot, and leaned forward to refill his tea and refresh Mycroft’s. “What did you think? How have you changed?”

Greg moved to the love seat and motioned for Mycroft to abandon the wingback and sit against him. Mycroft came to the couch, but faced Greg, wedging his knee under the other man’s.

Mycroft dragged his fingers through his hair as he tried to find the right words. “I wasn’t ready for my childhood room to be exactly the same. I’d wrongly assumed that my mother would have gutted it and turned it into a sewing room or some such nonsense. To see the detritus of my youth—“

“Like the fish bowl?” Greg asked, unsure whether Mycroft would be willing to talk about now what he couldn’t in the room last night.

With a deep breath and a slow release, Mycroft nodded. “And the photo album.”

Greg leaned over and placed his cup and saucer on the coffee table, then took Mycroft’s, whose hands trembled even though he seemed in control.

“Come closer,” he said to Mycroft, who untangled his legs and budged over until his side touched Greg’s. Maybe, if Mycroft didn’t have to look at him as he talked, he would be more willing. Less guarded.

Greg brushed his thumb over Mycroft’s, the soft pressure reassuring and calming. They sat together, not speaking. The tick tick tick of a clock in the bedroom. A muted conversation in the hallway as it passed in front of their suite’s door. Several times, Greg opened his mouth, only to close it without speaking.

"Your mother told me you had a friend in college. Christopher. Was that him in the photo album?" Greg finally asked.

"Yes. It was." A small answer, quiet and hushed.

Greg waited in silence. The story was more than Mummy had said. He realized that much. If Mycroft wanted to share, it would have to be his decision not one Greg forced him into making.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Mycroft extricated himself from the couch and grabbed the electric kettle. Not because he wanted more tea, but because refilling it would waste time and mask the silence while he decided what to say. Greg picked up the two cups for rinsing. On his way back to the living area, he trailed his fingers across Mycroft's shoulders as he watched the kettle. A simple reminder that he was loved no matter what.

A fresh pot of tea. Time to arrange his thoughts. Mycroft sat with his back against the arm of the love seat and tangled his feet in Greg's, who sat facing him.

“I began Harrow in Year 7, when I was just 11. I hated boarding school. I loathed being away from my room, my books, my walking paths. Mummy felt that I would benefit from being with other children instead of spending so much time on my own. It was a significant financial sacrifice for them, and every day when I woke up surrounded by Neanderthals making jokes about bodily functions and basing a person’s worth on football and underarm stench, I had to remind myself of their sacrifice.

“I was quiet, but when I did speak, I was scathing in my attacks on my fellow housemates. I learned too late to keep my mouth closed. My roommate barely tolerated me, mostly out of fear of what possible revenge I had devised based on something from one of the books I was always studying. The others, though, delighted in whatever form of torture they could concoct. I won’t bore you with those details.”

Greg’s hand rubbed the front of Mycroft’s ankle for the intimate connection. This was painful for him to hear, because he knew Mycroft’s wit; he’d been slashed several times by his sarcasm. Greg could imagine being 11, trying to fit in and crossing Mycroft. He felt sorry for those children, but he also felt so very sad for that lonely boy.

“Most of us stayed into Sixth Form to study for our A-levels. A handful of new students joined us. When I returned after summer holiday, I found that my roommate would be a new student, Christopher. His father was English and taught at the Harrow International School in Hong Kong and that was where he’d attended. Since his father wanted him to go to Cambridge for University, he believed Christopher would benefit from studying for his A-levels here.”

“Chris had moved in first. He was beautiful. White blond hair. Blue eyes. And the room…his shelves, footlocker, every space except his bed pillow was covered with books. My heart leapt—maybe for the first time in five years I wouldn’t sleep in fear of being attacked. He saw me standing in the doorway, my footlocker behind me, and offered me a quick smile and a cutting wit. ‘These are called books. Bo-oks. Have you ever seen one? I doubt it.’ I had no idea how to respond, so I hefted my footlocker onto the empty bed and opened it. All of the books I’d crammed in tumbled out.

“He picked up my copy of Catcher in the Rye and said, ‘Do not tell me you actually liked this book with its ridiculous plot and more ridiculous main character.’ I battered him with every reason why he was wrong. He rebuffed each one, insulting my intelligence and often my parentage. I knew then that he would be my best friend.

“He rooted through my trunk, looking for whatever else he would find interesting. At the bottom he found my dog eared copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the spine broken and in two parts from wear. He placed it back in my trunk with reverence, and went to his own footlocker. He carefully picked up a book to show me. His copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide was every bit as bad. I knew then that he would be my best friend for life.

“We were inseparable. We were studying for the same A-levels, so we were in class together, studied together, ate together, slept together…”

Greg coughed in shock.

“That’s not what I meant. At least, not at first. Our school taught us to be gentlemen, and what better way than through socials with all-girl boarding schools. I never attended the gatherings when I was young, and no one thought I was odd because I would rather study than dance. But in Sixth Form, fewer boys stayed away knowing that the girls were as eager for a good snog as they were.

“Those who didn’t attend…became the subject of gossip. Finger pointing. I was neither straight nor gay. I didn’t care enough to choose. Relationships were pointless because it would require time I could put into studying languages or military history. Christopher said he also didn’t care enough to choose. The socials became our favorite nights of the month because the library would be empty except for us, and we could debate without fear of reprisals from the librarian.

“One night in March, we’d had a particularly enthusiastic argument about Margaret Thatcher—whether she was a help or hindrance to the Conservative Party. We argued all the way back to our room. He was irate; we were barely speaking by the time we reached our room. I’d dumped my books on the floor, and was straightening my bed before getting into it. He whirled around to make one last, angry point, tripped on my books, knocked into me and we fell onto my bed. He landed on top of me, and he laughed and apologized profusely. But he didn’t move. And I found that I didn’t want him to.

“The pressure of him on top of me was electrifying. I felt every atom of him. Touching me. Wanting me. God, I was so hard, and for the first time in my life, it was from another person. He was hard, too. He pushed against my thigh, and I wanted to touch him, to taste him. He stared into my eyes, breathing the same air. I don’t know who kissed whom, but it was gentle and beautiful. Not what I’d heard in locker room conversations.”

He gulped in air, concentrating on not crying. Not sobbing. “As cliché as it sounds, my life changed that night, when we kissed. When we touched. When he…reached for me and I orgasmed. For the first time in my life, someone was more important than school. More important than anything.  
“

“To others, we were who we’d always been. Two awkward, asexual nerd roommates. But for us, our world had changed. We were closer than ever. We made plans for our future, for university, for living in a city that would accept us so we wouldn’t have to lie. That spring, we decided to stay at school over the Easter hols. So many of our housemates had left for the week and rules were lax. We became…completely intimate…and spent all day and all night in bed, some days not even leaving for food.

“We lived together at University, but at the end of our first year, his father insisted he go back to Hong Kong for the summer. I didn’t want him to leave for so long because it would be almost impossible to talk to him. Of course, there were no cell phones, no texting. We had a horrible row, said dreadful things to each other, and when he left, I didn’t even say good bye. As soon as his taxi pulled away, I realized how ugly I’d been, how wrong…I couldn’t reach him, didn’t know where to call. I found his address from an envelope in his desk, and I wrote letter after letter. Begging him to forgive me. Saying I loved him. Pleading with him to return.”

Greg held on to Mycroft, rocking him as he continued.

“When he finally called me, we both cried. He told me he loved me, too, and I knew then that everything would be right. He convinced his parents to let him return to England early and to stay at my home for the few weeks left before we began at Cambridge. We never mentioned our argument or our time apart.

“By our last year at Cambridge, he had a cold he couldn’t shake. Some days he couldn’t even get out of bed for class. Fevers. Night sweats. He lost weight. The clinic said he had pneumonia. More medicine, but he couldn’t get better.”

Greg listened, letting Mycroft speak without interruption. The fear in Mycroft’s voice, the tremble in his hands. Was this the first time Mycroft had told anyone?

“He was so sick, and our clinic said he had mononucleosis, or he was working too hard. But he’d lost so much weight, and I had spent so many nights awake, trying to take care of him and study. I finally took him to the hospital in April. They knew. They knew right away. He had all the symptoms of HIV.

“He was quarantined, and I was tested. I was negative. I am still not sure how that is possible. He asked me to call his father and tell him that he was in the hospital. Neither of us asked if he were dying. We were 20. We had our lives in front of us. Of course he wasn’t dying.

“But he was.”

Mycroft’s composure fell apart. He curled into Greg, sobbing into his neck, gasping for air as he tried to stop. He held onto Greg, afraid of losing him, not letting go, fingers digging in.

“When I reached his father, he screamed at me, calling me disgusting names. Blamed me for making his son a faggot. A pillow biter. Blamed me for giving his son this Gay Disease. He made it clear that when he came to London, he was taking Christopher back home to Hong Kong, and that I would have no further contact.

“The day before he was to fly home with his father, Christopher had permission to see me, to say good bye. I took him to a carnival at a local church. I threw darts at balloons and won him a giant stuffed dog. I beat the clock in pie eating and won a goldfish. Christopher said it needed a name, so he called it Fairy because we could use a wish. He kissed me outside the carnival tent and traced his fingers over my face, as if he were trying to memorize it. He whispered that his only wish was to live with me forever. I said my only wish was that he would be all better.”

Mycroft broke down on the couch, his body wracked from the sobbing. Greg held him, rocked him, whispered over and over that it would be okay. Mycroft’s tears wet Greg’s hands, but neither moved.

“His father took him home the next day, against the doctors’ orders. That was the last time I saw him.

“I tried calling but no one answered. I wrote him letters every day. He tried calling but the few times he did, he got my answering machine. For years, I kept those messages.

“I moved Fairy to a larger bowl, and used the small bowl to hold matchbooks and coasters and ticket stubs from every club, every show, we’d gone to. We’d even snuck Sherlock into a club a few times to see his favorite band.

“Almost a year after Christopher left London, I received a package in the mail from his father. Christopher had died just after his 21st birthday in July. He’d asked his father to send me this package immediately, but he had waited more than six months to do so. Chris sent me his tie from Harrow so I would remember our time there together. It still smelled of his cologne that he wore then. I slept with it every night. So many times I thought about using it to…join him. To be with him again.

“He also sent me his journal that he’d written in the months after he left London. He’d recorded his memories of us, the places we went, the things we did. The times we made love. He wrote what we would do when he got better, when he came back to England. He said we’d pack up my apartment and move to Denmark because it was legal for two men to be registered partners there. We could live openly. I fell apart each time I read it, but I couldn’t stop. I don’t know if he knew he was never going to make it back to me.”

“The last item in the box was a sealed letter. The seal had been broken; I assume his father couldn’t help but interfere one final time. In the letter, Christopher told me that he’d lied to me when we first became friends. He’d said he was a virgin like I was and that he had no interest in sex. But in truth, he’d been sexually active with boys and men at home; when his father found out, he sent him away to London. Admittedly, an all-boys boarding school may not have been the smartest choice.”

He laughed through his sobs and used the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe his face.

“He’d loved me almost from our first argument when we were 16. He’d believed that, if I knew he was gay, I wouldn’t have been his friend. By the time we realized how we felt, the lie had sat between us for too long. He hated that lie between us. And when we argued before he went home our first year at University, he thought we were done. In anger, he spent that summer having sex with as many men as he could.”

Mycroft picked up his head, looking in Greg’s eyes for the first time since he began. Mycroft’s eyes, swollen and red from crying, searched for anger or revulsion in Greg’s, but found only love. Greg gently placed his hands on Mycroft’s cheeks and kissed his tears before wiping them away.

“Maybe he became infected before he came to England. Maybe it was that summer. He’d had unprotected sex, but never with me. He always bottomed, never ejaculated in my mouth. I finally understood why. It was that and luck that spared me from infection.

“His father had taken him home just before we sat for exam our final year. I pushed through, holding everything in. After graduation my parents forced me to return home to recuperate from ‘three difficult years’ of studying. I suppose they knew more than I thought. I was heartbroken and grieving, not eating, not sleeping. It was a miracle I received a job offer. I accepted it but was fired shortly after because I couldn’t get out of bed to get to work on time and when I did, I couldn’t concentrate.

“They forced me to apply to graduate schools, and I chose the law school at Cambridge. I thought that, if I went back to where we had lived together, I wouldn’t forget him. My father may have called in favors, but I was accepted at Cambridge And life went on.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out bit by bit. Greg released Mycroft from his hug to give him room and was rewarded with a sad smile. Mycroft left the couch for the bathroom, to rinse his face and slow his breathing, to regain control.

Greg found a box of tissues and put it on the coffee table. He toyed with the idea of refilling the kettle, but really, did anyone need that much tea at midnight?

Mycroft came up behind Greg and wrapped his arms around him, placing a small kiss on the graying peach fuzz on Greg’s nape.

“I’ve never told anyone.” Another kiss, this one behind Greg’s ear. “I believe Sherlock may have pieced much of it together, but not all.”

Greg turned to face Mycroft, not breaking his grasp. Mycroft’s eyes were still swollen and red. Greg kissed the corner of Mycroft’s eye; he didn’t trust himself with words. He cleared his throat and asked, “Have there been others?”

Mycroft shook his head and pursed his lips, wanting to leave the discussion behind. “No. I…I did that once, and I said I would not do it again. I’d never wanted to risk that degree of pain and loss again, at least, until I met you.”

Greg held his breath. They’d never spoken about ‘them’, what this was, what this might be. His heart beat hard; he could hear it in his ears.

“Meeting you, being with you has made me rethink my decisions,” Mycroft acknowledged, his hand reaching out to stroke Greg’s forehead, his hair. To trace his finger down Greg’s nose and over his lips. Greg kissed Mycroft’s finger. He watched Mycroft’s eyes, the sadness slipping away, leaving room something new.

“I already told you that I’m not looking for another mistake,” Greg said. “I did that with my marriage. I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t…If we…if you weren’t incredibly special to me.” Greg’s voice cracked, thick with what he wanted to say. He wasn’t a kid. He’d been in and out of dozens of relationships; he knew the difference between a crush and real feelings.

This wasn’t any of those. He’d never felt like this. Not even at his wedding.

Greg pulled Mycroft closer. “It may not be the time or place, but I’m going to say this anyway. When I look into the future, I see you and me. Talking, playing, traveling, making love,” his face turned red, but he didn’t stop. “I want to be with you, to share everything with you.”

Greg leaned forward the final few inches and kissed Mycroft. Different than earlier in the night when they’d almost fucked against the wall. Different than in Mycroft’s kitchen. That was passion. Lust. This was something new, growing. Unnamed.

Hands searched. Lips explored. Not with the intensity of immediate need, but with the languid pace of unlimited time.

Greg broke the kiss, pulling back enough to look at Mycroft. His Mycroft. The raw honesty in his eyes. He cupped Mycroft’s face with his hands and kissed the corner of his mouth. Fragile. Him. Them. This.

Greg’s lips grazed Mycroft’s. Resting their foreheads together, Greg opened his eyes for a moment. Mycroft looked younger, his face free of worry that usually lined his forehead. A smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered, his breath tickling Mycroft’s lips, swollen from the brush of whiskers and the press of lips.

Mycroft slowly opened his eyes, bringing his world into focus. A full smile now, mouth, cheeks and eyes.

Greg mirrored all that Mycroft felt. Trust. Faith. That his partner was worth the risk of laying bare his soul.

“I love you.”


	8. Knight In White Satin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ex-Wives always come back to haunt you, figuratively speaking. this isn't a ghost story! When Greg's ex has a chance to go on an amazing vacation, she leaves Greg to pick up the pieces. Exhausted and frustrated in more ways than one, Greg has to ask for Mycroft's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge apology goes out to "Frozen" for the misuse of the lyric ;) Also to Virgin Atlantic and the Rubens at the Palace hotel, who does have a breakfast buffet, but I can't guarantee they sell 'Bubble and Squeak'. Also, IDK but i'm pretty sure you'd have to be as awesome as Mycroft to have Harrod's deliver...
> 
> TYSM to 221btls for betaing and to doctorsdaughter for also being a lookie loo ;)
> 
> Almost done! one more chapter.

_His hands searched Mycroft's chest. His shoulders. His fingers drifted down Mycroft's belly following his auburn trail of hair below. He took Mycroft's cock in both hands--one hand didn't come close to closing around it--felt the silky hardness of it. As he looked in Mycroft's eyes, he flicked his tongue over the slit, tasting him, wanting to drink him in. Mycroft almost wept with need, singing ‘Let it go! Let it go!’ No. That's not right. Greg dragged his tongue up Mycroft's shaft and moaned around his cock. Mycroft felt the vibrations in Greg’s throat, threw back his head and sang, ‘The cold never bothered me anyway.’ He looked up at Mycroft. ‘You’re ruining the mood singing my daughter’s ringtone, Mycroft.’_

Wait, what?

"Phone. Shit!” Greg bolted upright on the couch; still asleep, Mycroft’s head slid off Greg’s shoulder and onto the back of the sofa.

Greg shook the sleep from his head and searched for his phone. They must have drifted off talking, curled up against each other on the couch. He sat wedged in the corner; his neck ached from sleeping with his head thrown back against the couch, Mycroft burrowed up against him. “My phone. Where’s my phone?" He knew that ring tone. Greg's frantic hands searched around him pushing into the space between cushions. He could hear it. Where the fuck is it?

Mycroft stirred, too exhausted to make sense of the movement. “Wuh…” Greg budged him upright, so Mycroft wouldn’t slide down when Greg moved.

He reached under Mycroft's bum, behind his back. It had to be here somewhere. He could hear it for fuck’s sake. Greg finally stood up and flung the seat cushions onto the floor. There. It had fallen into the couch.

“Anabelle, what’s the matter?” Greg said before he finished pressing the send button. Nothing. Dead air. Two dings signified voice mail, but he didn’t bother listening, just redialed.

She answered on the first ring. “Hi Daddy.” He closed his eyes and listened to her voice. Crying? Was she crying? Upset? _Daddy’s_ not good. She only says _Daddy_ when she’s upset or wants something.

“What’s going on, baby? Are you okay? It’s just that, it’s the middle of the night here.” He wanted to know now but willed himself to speak casually, like, _no big deal. I get calls at 3 in the morning all the time._

“Something’s goin’ on, and I don’t know what to do.” Anabelle sounded on edge. Her voice cracked and he knew at that moment that she was twisting her hair around her finger, releasing it, and starting again.

“Whatever it is, Belle, we can figure it out,” Greg said, scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Just take a deep breath and start at the beginning.”

He heard her breathe in and release it slowly. “Ok. Here goes. Your ex-wife is really effing selfish and--”

“Hey,” he cut her off before she finished the sentence. “Show your mother the respect she deserves and watch your mouth.” His ‘or else’ was implied, but he would have bet money from 4000 miles across the Atlantic that she’d just rolled her eyes. And when did she get such a snarky mouth?

“Yes, Dad.” More eye rolling. “Mother is going on a 7-day cruise with Brad. Tomorrow. They’re leaving me here alone til you get home on Wednesday.”

“Wait,” Greg said, switching the phone to his other ear, as if he would hear something different. “Start again because I know I did not hear what I just heard.”

“Tomorrow. 7 days. With her boyfriend. Said I’d be okay to stay home alone til you got back.”

“But it's _Sunday_.” He said dully, his brain still muddled from the little sleep he’d gotten.

“That’s what I’m saying, Dad. She wants me to be alone for three days. What parent wants that? Most of them would assume I’d throw huge parties or have wild sex. She tried calling Gran, but she's out of town.”

“What about one of your friends. Can you stay with one of them til I get back Wednesday?”

“Anna's at the house in Maine. Clare's at her dad’s in Tampa.” He could hear the ‘how stupid do you think I am’ in her voice.

“What about Maggie? Is she home?”

“Mom doesn't let me to sleep at Maggie's cause she's gay, and Mom thinks we’re gonna have an orgy or something.” Seriously. The sass of this child. When he got home, he was gonna talk to her about it.

“What?” Again. Did he just hear that right? “Yeah. Okaaay. Well, are you gay?”

“No, Dad. Are you?” She answered one stupid question with another.

Greg almost dropped his phone in surprise. “Look,” he said, finding his voice. “My point is, if you're not in a relationship with Maggie then it's moot. And I'm not about to judge someone because of their orientation and neither should your mom. What time is it there?”

He looked up at Mycroft, who was engrossed in his phone, tapping and swiping. ‘So beautiful. Mine. I guess I am gay,’ he said to himself. He’d tell Anabelle when they got home.

“It’s like 10 o’clock here.”

“Call Maggie and see if you can stay with her tonight. I mean tomorrow night. SUNDAY. Sunday night. I'm going to call your mom right now. Message me what Maggie's mom says. I'll call you back when I'm done finished with—after I talk with your mother.”

Greg flung his phone onto the coffee table. “Jesus Christ. That woman is a fucking idiot! How did I spend 15 years with her?”

Mycroft hesitated, reaching out to Greg hoping to support him, to steady him, but Greg jumped up from the couch, leaving Mycroft’s hand hanging in the air.

Greg picked up his phone and checked that he hadn’t cracked the screen when he hurled it. No crack. No message.

He walked to the window.

Back to the table to the phone.

Back to the window.

Back to the phone. He picked it up and pounded in the four digit passcode. Swiped. “Can you believe she’s going to do that?”

“I don’t know--”

Gregg whirled around and almost grabbed Mycroft’s arm before he stopped himself. “Are you taking her side?” he stared at Mycroft, mouth and eyes stretched in anger.

“Gregory. Stop pacing and sit down. I literally have no idea what is going on.” He stood up and brought Gregory to the wingback chair. “Sit. Explain.”

Mycroft listened as a lawyer and as a friend as Gregory recounted the phone call. “And now I need to call Jennifer and be rational.”

He picked up the phone and stared at it. Put it back on the table, face down. Picked it up again and stared at it, struggling to find the right words before he dialed.

“We’ll do whatever you need to,” Mycroft said, his hand covering Greg’s on the phone. “Whatever you need to do.”

Greg nodded, so thankful for his understanding and selflessness. This isn’t how he wanted to start this morning after Mycroft opened himself up last night. Greg had wanted to wake up slowly. To whisper to Mycroft his feelings. How glad he was that Mycroft was still here, hadn’t used his Christopher’s tie to take his life.

He brought Mycroft’s hand to his mouth for a kiss before he dialed.

“Hi Jennifer. Do you have a few minutes? I’ll keep it short. Anabelle called me and told me about your vacation. I’d rather hear it from you without her spin on it.” He attempted to keep his voice cordial, non-judgmental until he had all the facts.

Jennifer’s voice blared through the phone so clearly that Mycroft, who stood behind Greg’s chair, heard every word. Wanting to afford Greg privacy, he turned toward the bathroom. Greg reached out and held his wrist, pointing to the couch. He mouthed, “Please stay.” And smiled.

“Brad’s company booked a double room on the corporate cruise but his cabin-mate is sick. On Friday, they suggested he could bring someone rather than let it go to waste. It’s a seven-day cruise. We’ll leave tomorrow afternoon and get home early Sunday morning.” Her words were short and crisp, explaining but not asking for permission or understanding.

“Why am I just hearing about this now?” Greg tried to keep his voice calm, instead tearing the receipt from the snacks in half, quarters, eights, sixteenths.

“Gimme a break. I spent today trying to find someone to stay with her. Your mother is out of town. Her friends are away. Look. She’s a good kid, you know that. She’s not gonna have a huge party or invite some boy to stay over or go wild. And I’ve already spoken to Jayme next door. She’s gonna keep her eye on Anabelle til you get home. I gotta go,” Jennifer said, signaling that the conversation was decided and complete.

“Do. Not. Hang. Up.” Greg measured his words, frustrated at being too far away to be part of the solution. “She’s scared, Jennifer. She doesn’t want to be alone.”

“Gregory…”

He bit his lips, trying not to lose his composure. This. This was why they were friggin’ divorced. Everything was about her and what she wanted, and fuck anyone else. “Don’t call me Gregory. You know I hate that.”

Mycroft flinched when he heard Gregory…Greg say that. How many times this weekend alone had he called him that. He sat back in the couch and bit his lip as he listened, his stomach roiling at his gaffe.

Jennifer ignored him. “First of all, she’s playing you like she always does. And you let her. She’s just selfish. Second of all, I’m a working, single mother, Greg. It’s been years since I had a vacation, and I need this. And it will help Brad if I’m there,” Jen argued, her voice rising with each sentence. “Besides. It’s not like you’re worried about it, in London with your new girlfriend.” So much venom in one little word.

“We aren’t talking about me. This is not my week with Anabelle.” As Jennifer’s voice rose, Greg’s dropped, low and dangerous. “What I do and with whom isn’t your concern. This is why we are divorced, Jennifer. Your inability to be wrong. You were never a partner. You wanted to control me and expected I’d follow along. I’m only sorry it took me so long to realize and get out.”

“I have taken care of this, Gregory. And if it bothers you, come back early. Ride in on your white horse and save the day. Be the hero. I’m done talking.” She hung up without the chance of him responding.

He dropped the phone back to the coffee table and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that,” he whispered, keeping his head down.

“What can I do to help?” Mycroft asked, rubbing Greg’s back, long strokes up and down trying to comfort.

“I need to go home, My.” He couldn’t find a voice loud enough, but Mycroft heard. “She does this all the time. Leaves me to pick up the pieces. But I can’t not do this for Anabelle. It’s not right to leave her alone.”

Mycroft handed his phone to Greg, already opened to the Virgin-Atlantic website. “Virgin has two flights home tomorrow. One leaves at 11 am and lands at 3 in Orlando. One leaves at 1 and lands at 5. Both have seats available.”

“We can’t book now because we don’t know what time we have to get the kids back to Matt, and we can’t call him. It’s almost 4 in the morning.” Greg sounded defeated, unsure. Exhausted.

“May I take care of this for you?” Mycroft asked, hesitant to take control after what Greg just said to his ex-wife. Greg handed his phone to Mycroft, who shook him off. “Send Anabelle a text telling her not to worry about being alone. Tell her you’ll be home Sunday in time for dinner. And say you will bring dinner.”

As Greg fumble with his phone, Mycroft tapped the keyboard on the phone, entering information to purchase the tickets, and then texted Matt.

 

_**Greg has a situation at home. We will be leaving on a 1pm V-A** _

_**flight to Orlando today/Sunday. What time do you need Sean & Siobhan?** _

 

At very least, Matt would have the question when he woke up in a few hours. Mycroft did not expect the alert to ding seconds later.

 

**Awesome. We’re on that flight too. Meet you at V-A departures desk**

**at 11am bc we have the kids’ tickets. TYSM for everything.**

 

Mycroft showed Greg the text. He said, “I booked us on the 1 o’clock. As a bonus, by the time we get to Anabelle, Jennifer’s cruise liner will be out in the ocean. There will be no chance of you running into her.”

“I’m sorry about this,” Greg hesitated. How could ‘sorry’ begin to cover the expense of this mess not to mention cutting short their time together?

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You are a good father, Gregory…Greg.” Mycroft’s face flushed at the mistake of using the formal version.

“Oh…God, no, Mycroft,” Greg moved to the couch to be close to his lover. He caressed Mycroft’s cheek but couldn’t get Mycroft to look at him. He slid his hand down to the chin and drew Mycroft’s face to his.

“When she says _Gregory_ , it sounds like a nasty teacher or like I’m in trouble. When you say it, it’s a term of respect and love.” He closed the distance between their lips, his warm breath tickling Mycroft’s mouth. “And desire.”

Mycroft nodded and kissed Greg, sliding his hand behind Gregory’s neck to pull him closer.

“I love when you say it,” Greg nipped Mycroft’s lower lip. His jaw. The sweet spot under his earlobe where Greg swore he could feel Mycroft’s racing pulse.

Too many clothes. Not enough skin. Need. More. Contact. Mycroft pulled Greg’s shirt up, wrestling with it without breaking the heat of the kiss.

“No. We can’t,” Greg said, moving away, moving back. “I can’t stop again, and I don’t wanna do this in front of the kids.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, breathing deeply enough that Greg saw his chest move. He nodded but his face was blank.

“It’s not us. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed,” Greg draped his arms over Mycroft’s neck to pull him back, and pressed their foreheads together. “Some parents are very careful, very touchy about unmarried people having sex. And I don’t know Honey very well at all.”

Mycroft nodded again. Yes. But tilted his head and stole another kiss. Another. “I want you so badly,” he whispered. “I just…want you.”

“We’ll be home tonight, baby. We’ll at my house. I’ll tell Anabelle and we can be together. Really together.” Still. Too many clothes. Better it was better that way. Greg had no self-control left. None.

Exhausted, the two men pulled out the couch bed, which thankfully was already made up with linens.

Greg yawned and stretched before laying down. “I'm glad we don’t have to make the bed, but at this point, I would have slept without the friggin’ sheets.”

Mycroft gagged at the thought of public bedding with no sheets.

"Do you have any idea what lives in hotel mattresses?" Mycroft shuddered.

“No, and I don't want to or I'll never sleep, and you’ll be on your own with the kids tomorrow because I'll be a zombie.”

“Do you think Matt and Honey would be ok with us both sleeping here?” Mycroft asked. “I don't relish the idea of sleeping upright even if it's just a few hours.”

Greg nodded. “I'll sleep on the sheets with the bugs. You sleep on top of the covers. There's another blanket in the closet.”

Greg set the alarm on his phone for 8. That would afford them three hours to sleep, then breakfast, then drive the hour to the airport to get there two hours ahead of the flight time.

A list of worries ran through his head until he finally fell asleep, lulled by Mycroft’s soft breathing and the ticking of the bedroom clock.

 

\---

 

“They're so adorable when they're asleep.”

“You can barely remember all the trouble they get into when they're awake.”

"Very funny you two," Greg croaked, his voice still thick with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Y'all slept in. It's 7:30,” Siobhan answered, cheery and ready to start the day. "What are we gonna do today? Do you wanna go to the _Doctor Who_ locations in London? Cardiff is a super close. We could see **_all_ ** the places they film. Oh! Maybe even run Into Moffat!" She grimaced and shook her fist before falling apart laughing.

"Gregory," a voice cracked from under a feather pillow. "Please remind me to contact the hotel manager about the vermin in this room. They are very forward and quite loud. "

"You're funny," Sean said in a tone that screamed _so not funny at all_. “At least Siobhan hasn’t jumped on your bed to wake you up.”

“Yet..." She grimaced again and shook her fist.

Greg updated them. “Sorry y’all. We need to be at the airport by 11, so we have to leave here by10. If you watch TV til we're ready, we should be downstairs for breakfast by 8:15.” He watched them nod and turn the tv on, checking each station for something they could agree on.

Greg showered to wake up, which really didn’t work. Showers should really be made of caffeine. Stand under the shower head and just open up your mouth. Or caffeine IV’s. Yes! Just mainline the caffeine, right into the vein. Oh, yes. Open little caffeine clinics. Start a chain. National Caffeine Institute. Make it sound all official.

“May I come in?” On autopilot, Greg had run his shower ritual without thought, until the knock on the bathroom door brought him from his caffeine reverie.

Greg stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around himself, and cracked the door. Mycroft held a clean set of clothes for Greg and opened the door further.

“Do you have any willpower?” Greg asked as Mycroft offered him the clothes. “I’m about out, and one of us has to be strong.” He held the towel with his left hand and slipped his right around the nape of Mycroft’s neck.

Greg stepped in closer, pressing his body against Mycroft’s sleep shirt, the rivulets of water from his belly leaving lines on the absorbent cotton.

“Mycroft,” he whispered, and shook his head like a dog stepping from its bath. His wet hair sprayed water on Mycroft’s face, back, ears.

Greg belly laughed, not only at tricking Mycroft but at the shock on his face. Mycroft stood sputtering, unable to find proper words. Educated words.

“What the actual fuck?” was the best he could articulate before bursting into laughter.

Greg loved this most about Mycroft. His stern, staid Mycroft. Pillar of society and 3 piece suits. Standing in a bathroom, hair wild from sleep, in a t-shirt and pajama pants, doubled over laughing. Hands on knees. Water spots on his clothes and face. Open. Alive. Only for Greg. Gregory.

Too late, Greg missed Mycroft’s hand dart out and pull the towel off. “Ha! I have your clothes _**and**_ your towel. You owe me because I’m soaking wet.” Mycroft waved the towel over his head with one hand and hid the spare clothes behind him with the other.

Greg grabbed a breath, trying to speak but he couldn’t control his howl of laughter. “Gimme. My. Clothes. Or. Else.”

Raised eyebrow. A step backward out of the bathroom. “Or else what?” Mycroft challenged Greg, with another step out of the bathroom.

“Or else I’ll send you home alone tonight!” Greg’s threat was empty, but Mycroft brought his hand to his chest and stumbled.

“A hit. A very palpable hit.” Mycroft crumpled against the wall and slid to the floor. He offered Greg the towel and clothes.

“You’re ridiculous,” Greg planted a kiss on the top of Mycroft’s head and grabbed the clothes.

No one. Ever. Ever. Had called Mycroft Holmes ridiculous. “And you love it,” Mycroft countered. And so did he.

“Hey you two! Keep it down in there,” Siobhan yelled from the sitting area. “You’re both ridiculous, and we can’t hear the telly.”

“That child has some serious sass,” Greg shook his head and continued dressing.

“Have you met her mother?” Mycroft snarked, standing up and turning the shower on.

“I heard that.” Bionic hearing. That’s what that girl has.

Hearing a knock on the suite door, Mycroft leaned out of the bathroom and asked Sean to answer it. “I had _Harrod's_ send over clothes for them for today. Hopefully I chose the correct sizes.”

Greg left Mycroft to shower in peace and gathered their things from around the suite. It wouldn’t take long. They’d barely settled in before Matthew called them away.

Siobhan offered to help him. She had already dressed in the new clothes Mycroft had chosen: a Ralph Lauren light pink polo shirt and navy chinos which Greg suspected were probably also Lauren. That man had expensive taste.

They picked up the bedroom (nothing left behind) and the sitting area (night clothes discarded for the newly delivered). The rest would be in the bathroom. Greg stuffed the laundry into his suitcase. Sean, outfitted in a Lauren Polo shirt and chinos, did one last sweep of the bedroom and sitting area as Greg turned the bed back into a couch.

Mycroft could have been their father, dressed in an outfit similar to Sean and Siobhan. Greg looked at his own outfit; in jeans and a V-neck shirt, he was definitely underdressed.

“Thank you for the clothes, Uncle Mycroft,” Siobhan hugged him. This time, he wasn’t awkward or unsure. He returned the hug with as much love as she had given.

“Yeah. They’re okay.” Sean tucked his shirt in and adjusted the new belt. It was totally weird how these guys he barely knew yesterday had done so much for them. They were pretty okay, too.

“Ok, y’all. Breakfast, airport, then home!” Greg ushered them out the door to the lift.

Traded texts informed them that Honey was doing fine and was in the midst of the discharge process. They were on track for meeting at 11 at Gatwick.

The plan was for something quick to eat, until the full English breakfast buffet rendered the three native Floridians speechless.

“Bacon!’ Siobhan squealed with delight.

"Baaaaacon," Greg said in a holy and reverential whisper.

Bacon. Fried Eggs. Sausages. Black pudding. Baked beans. Toast. Fruit. Even cereals. The buffet had everything.

Greg poured coffee for Mycroft and himself from the silver pot on their table while Mycroft buttered their toast. He cut it in half and handed the plate to Gregory in exchange for a cup of black coffee.

"You cut it into two triangles," Siobhan said, her voice a whisper of awe. "Mama says that's how you cut it when you love someone.”

Greg stopped chewing his toast and looked at the slice he held. Triangular.

"Really?" Mycroft asked, his smile wide and light. "My Mummy always said that, too."

Mycroft stretched his leg toward Greg and rested their ankles against one another.

Greg smiled, all teeth and crow’s feet and sun. "I've never heard that.”

"Oh yes," Mycroft said with his most serious voice. "It's the law."

Giggles. Bacon. Caffeine. More bacon. They lost count of how many trips Siobhan made for more. Mycroft offered tastes of his Bubble and Squeak, but found no takers.

He answered their horrified looks, poking at the Bubble and Squeak with his fork. "It's just mashed potatoes. Peas. Cabbage. Brussels sprouts."

Sean pointed to Greg and tried to contain his laughter.

"What? Why are you pointing at me?" Greg asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Uncle Mycroft had Brussels sprouts. And. Cabbage,” Sean stammered through his laughter, banging his fist on his thigh. “He's gonna fart the whole way home!"

Mycroft's jaw dropped, and he sputtered, "I'm not...I never..."

In mock horror Greg turned to Siobhan and said, “I’ll pay you five squid to switch plane seats with me.”

She laughed too hard to catch a breath let alone refuse.

"Awww c'mon. It might be first class," he begged. Nothing doing. Neither child would agree.

"Well, I never!" Mycroft grumbled, feigning grumpiness by tossing his cloth napkin onto the table.

Sean giggled and pointed across the table to Mycroft, “Oh, I bet you have!"

Mycroft pushed away his plate with a smile. Most of the Bubble and Squeak had gone uneaten, but if it made the kids laugh it was all good.

\---

Mycroft drove to the rental return desk in the parking garage at the airport, expecting they would grab a jitney to the terminal. When the customer service representative entered Mycroft’s information into the computer, she immediately stammered, “Mr. Holmes. Welcome back. If you have a moment, I shall find our Service Manager to drive you to Departures.” She turned to Greg, who was unloading the luggage, “Sir, beg pardon, but if you leave those in the car, we will bring you to Departures immediately.”

Simple country barrister my ass, Greg thought yet again as he watched the woman fawn over Mycroft. Some secrets were gonna be spilled tonight.

Matt was waiting for them outside Virgin-Atlantic departures when the rented Mercedes drove up. The rental company’s Service Manager hopped out as quickly as he could and placed their bags on the sidewalk.

"Was the hospital acceptable?" Mycroft asked as he shook Matthew’s hand. "No issues or concerns?"

"Mycroft, first things first,” Greg chided with a laugh. "How are Honey and the baby?"

"Perfect. Ready to go home, though," Matt said, pushing his hair off his face. No sooner had he moved his hand than his bangs were back in his eyes. It didn’t even register, Greg noticed.

The magic-eye doors opened and the kids ran to their mom. She sat in a wheelchair with Kiera patiently perched on her lap. Hugs and more hugs. Overall, she looked well and well-rested unlike the other adults.

Thanks to the mysteries of Mycroft, they breezed through security and customs. This time, when asked what they had to declare, there were no jokes. Each of them wanted to be home today for their own reasons.

They parted ways at the gate; Mycroft had indeed booked Upper Class seats. Before they left, Greg looked at Siobhan. “C’mon…” he wheedled. “10 squid? 20?”

Her gales of laughter brought smiles from the surrounding passengers.

“Good luck,” she stage whispered. “You’re gonna need it.” She pretended to shiver at the thought.

“I do apologize to you both, madam and sir,” Mycroft said directly to Sean and Siobhan. “I was my intention to take you to Cardiff today and introduce you to a friend of mine, Mr. Moffat. Perhaps next summer, if your parents approve.”

With that parting shot, Mycroft followed Greg through the boarding gate. Once through, he belly laughed. “Now Matt and Honey will have to listen to their Doctor Who chatter.”

He ran smack into Greg, who’d stopped to gawk at him. You…and Moffat… are friends?”

Ohhhh, yes. Secrets were gonna be told tonight. Or else.


	9. Rite of Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally. The Stars align. Fate gives Mycroft and Greg a break. Greg introduces his daughter to Mycroft--and all that that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many thanks to 221btls for her beautiful beta-ing, and to doctorsdaughter, who also beta'd. they held my hand, ripped me apart and watched me tape myself back together, better than before. 
> 
> my apologies to Macklemore https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wy0Vnuex9I for abusing the amazing song, Thrift Shop.
> 
> Also, Mel Torme Pure Velvet and The Essential Frank Sinatra: The Columbia Years would definitely be in Greg's iPod!

"Belle! I'm home!" Greg called as he opened the front door to Jennifer's house. He had a key which, strictly speaking, he should’ve returned when he moved out, but the door was usually unlocked. Like today. With two teenage girls there alone.

Upstairs. He could hear the giggles. And the music. The entire block could hear her speakers blast, "Let it go! Let it goooo! Can’t hold it back any more…"

He crept step by step, careful to avoid the piles of clothes and books that had accumulated instead of being brought upstairs to the bedrooms. When he reached Anabelle's doorway, he jumped out and shouted, "I'm a murderer!"

Maggie keeled over onto the bed in spasms of laughter. Through her own hysterics, Anabelle pointed the remote at the speakers and lowered the volume.

Greg's face fell. That did not go as he had planned.

"Told you," Anabelle said to Maggie, between gasps.

“No!” Maggie said, rolling on the bed and holding her sides. “You said he’d say, _I’m a rapist_!”

"We heard you drive up, and I bet Mags that you would try to scare us if we didn't answer you," Anabelle said caught between her contempt and laughter. Laughter won.

“Can I at least get a hug for being so predictable?" Greg pouted.

Anabelle jumped off the bed and hugged him tighter than she had in years. "Thank you for coming home, Daddy. Especially cutting your date-cation short. Is she pissed?"

"Who?" Greg back-pedaled, thinking as quickly as he could so he wouldn’t commit himself to either the truth or a lie before he had time to explain.

"Your girlfriend. On your date-cation." Honestly. Anabelle knew her Dad was old but for the love of God couldn't he keep the thread of a conversation in his head??

"Y'all get ready to go.” Avoiding the question seemed the best tactic. “We're going to mine. Maggie are you staying over?"

"Yes, Sir, if you're good with it," the red haired girl answered without hesitation. When he'd first met her, Greg fell back on stereotypes. Her half shaved head. Oversized black clothes. Plaid flannel shirt in the dead of summer. In Florida. He assumed she'd be a tough girl. But she was kind, polite and respectful. Belle’s best friend

And gay. Maybe telling Anabelle would be easier than he'd thought.

"No matter what your mother says, I didn't go with a girlfriend. I went with a friend from work. He's waiting in the car with dinner." He held his breath, afraid she'd put the pieces together before he knew what he wanted to say.

Both girls made shaming noises to tease him, laughing as his face flushed.

"C'mon you two. And lock the front door. I'm going to wait with Mycroft." He walked out of her room and down the stairs, toeing the piles of crap toward the walls.

"Mycroft! What the hell kind of name is that?" Anabelle called after him, still hysterical.

"Watch your mouth, missy," he threatened with no force behind it. They spent so little time together and rarely really communicated. If he fussed over her language, he'd lose her even more.

As Greg slid behind the steering wheel, he said, "Thank you for having your secretary drop my car at the airport.” He reached over to Mycroft and rubbed the back of his neck.

Mycroft cringed. "When you meet her, definitely don't call her my secretary. Or assistant. Anthea. Call her that." Greg laughed at Mycroft's discomfort. This Anthea must be formidable to stand up to Mycroft Holmes in work mode. They were cut off by giggles tumbling through the Honda’s doors.

Greg and Mycroft twisted to face the girls. "Anabelle. Maggie. May I introduce Mr. Mycroft Holmes? He's a lawyer with the school district."

Maggie waved and said hi. Anabelle shot him her father's easy smile. Wavering between Daddy's little girl and mouthy, she settled on sass.

"Good Evening Mr. Holmes," she began.

"Mr. Mycroft will do," Greg’s voice cracked.

"So, Mr. Mycroft. Did my dad get in trouble? Did he need a lawyer? Is her a terrible principal? Oh! Is he gonna get fired?!" She asked with too much enthusiasm. Maggie smacked her in the gut to cut it out, but it didn't stop her from joining in the laughter.

"I can neither confirm nor deny," Mycroft said, with the polish of court cases. "I can say that the district has looked into his background and finds an inordinate amount of money spent at Forever 21 and on Candy Crush lives."

Anabelle squealed. "Oh. My. God. How did they know I have his credit card number? Even mom..."

"We didn't until just now, missy," Greg growled. “We’ll talk about that—“

"I'm going to say something I shall probably regret," Mycroft said with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t want Gregory angry tonight. "Anabelle, what is a 'Rose Tyler'?"

Another squeal, two in fact, and the _Doctor Who_ discussion started in the back seat. He spurred an argument about Rose Tyler versus Clara. Whatever Anabelle would assert, Maggie would counter with, “but Clara's soooo pretty."

"Let's leave the bags til later." Greg suggested as he pulled into the driveway of the two bedroom house.

The girls tumbled out of the car, still laughing and arguing as Anabelle unlocked the front door. The way she moved, with confidence and grace and the slightest hint of swagger. That was all Greg, Mycroft thought. The giggles carried to the yard through the open front door. He heard the clatter of plates and cutlery as they set the table.

"It's not incredible like yours," Greg apologized, "but it's mine. My mom moved out after my dad died and was renting it. After the divorce she offered it to me. And I'm close to school."

“It’s perfect,” Mycroft said, sneaking his hand into Greg’s and squeezing it.

The lights inside lit the bay window. They watched the girls set the table and dish out the chicken Lo Mein and fried rice.

"If we don't get in there soon, they'll eat all the egg rolls," Greg warned.

Mycroft took his other hand. “Are you certain you want to do this tonight? Have to tell Anabelle so I can stay over. You don't have to.”

“But I do. And I want to. I've never lied to that child about anything important, and I'm not going to start now. You are very important." He kissed Mycroft softly on the lips and said, "And Very. Very. Hot."

The girls kept up a running chatter throughout dinner. Some Greg followed. Some he didn't. Mycroft didn't follow any of it (Soccer. History. This guy. This girl. That teacher. Soccer. Soccer. Mom. Bitch.)

"Anabelle," Greg stared at her, Anabelle's eyes wide in shock. He wasn't supposed to hear that. "I know you're angry with your mom (she scoffed, but Greg stared her down) but she deserves a vacation also. And your respect."

"Yes sir," she said, chastened for his sake.

"If y'all are done, set your plates in the kitchen and--" The girls left the dining room before he finished and disappeared through the kitchen. Plates rinsed, then on toward Belle’s room at the front of the house.

Mycroft opened his mouth, but Greg held up his hand to stop him. "She has to show her mother some respect because no matter how I feel about her, she is a good mom." Greg laughed and added, "Who displayed terrible judgment today, I grant you.”

Mycroft reached for Greg's hand and squeezed. "I intended to say that Jennifer is quite lucky to have you. Not all ex-spouses would be as supportive." He pushed back his chair and closed the containers of leftover food before taking them to the kitchen.

Greg took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was time. He didn't know what he was going to say, but he hoped his heart would provide something eloquent. Heartfelt. And really, really, not stupid.

He knocked on Anabelle's bedroom door and walked in before he was invited. They were cleaning out Belle’s closet and trying on clothes.

"Looks like your closet puked," Greg said surveying her room. "Mags would you be willing to help Mr. Mycroft with the dishes and getting the luggage from the car?"

She bounced out 0f the room, happy to help. Greg asked permission to sit on Belle’s bed and then patted the chenille spread next to him.

"Daddy, what's the matter," Belle asked, watching him twist his hands in his lap.

He opened his mouth to speak, but then realized he had no words. To him, sexuality was profoundly private. No one had the right to know what happened in his bedroom. This was tantamount to offering up specifics. He would just have to trust her. That is what Jennifer said. Trust Anabelle.

“Is someone dying? Are you sick? Do you have cancer of the, you know—“ she lowered her voice and waved her hand toward his lap. “Testicles?”

He laughed and took her hands. They used to be so small and pudgy. There was a time one of her hands was smaller than his palm, but not anymore. With long, thin elegant fingers, her hands now were almost the same size as his. He stared at them, and wondered when she’d grown up.

“Whatever it is, Daddy, we’ll get through it together, no matter how bad.” She fought back tears, certain her mom or dad were heartbeats away from death.

He looked up and gasped at the tears that were sneaking out of the corners of her eyes. With a thumb, he wiped them away. “No, baby. It’s not bad. It’s good. Really good.”

She smiled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “What is it?”

“Ever since your mom and I got a divorce, I’ve had dates, but no one I cared enough to introduce you to. But um, I, uh, I’ve found someone really special. Someone I love, and…’

“What did Mycroft say when you told him that?” she asked, smiling through the tears welling in her eyes.

“Well, he didn’t answer but…”

Greg cut himself off.

“What did you say?” his eyes were wide under raised eyebrows.

“What did he say when you told him you loved him? I hope it wasn’t too early in your relationship. Guys don’t like that, Dad. It can scare them off,” she shared her knowledge of the universe.

“I—how—“

“It’s the way you look at him, Dad. Like he was the most beautiful thing in the world. The most perfect. It’s how you look at me. And I know how I feel when you smile like that. I feel like I could do anything, take on anything.” Anabelle hugged him, more tightly than she had since he’d moved out.

“And you know what, Daddy? He looks at you the same way. Like you just want to hold hands and smile all the time and giggle.” She released him and looked in his face. “I like him Daddy, but we have to ‘splain him a thing. He doesn’t know squat about the Doctor.”

Greg’s stomach knots unraveled. A smile replaced his deep worried frown. When did she become so worldly? So intuitive?

“He’s gonna stay here tonight; I wanted you to know that ahead of time,” Greg said, smiling wide. His cheeks hurt from grinning. “I really like him a lot.”

“I do too, Daddy. He seems kind. And he’s funny. He can sure give as good as he gets!” she said. The barbs had flown over dinner with the four of them insulting each other and laughing too hard to be offended.

“So,” she asked, a smile in her eyes, “Is he romantic? You know, long walks, candles, rose petals in the bathtub…”

“I’m not having this conversation,” Greg said, putting his hand out to stop her. “Not having it.”

“Foot massages. Back massages, skinny-dipping…”

“Lalalalaaaa. Not talking about it.” Greg covered his ears but still smiled broadly. He hugged his daughter again and stood up to find Mycroft.

“One day we’ll have this conversation about me, Dad. Will you be ready?”

Whistling "Let It Go" he went in search of Maggie, who’d made herself comfortable in front of the television. She handed him the remote and smiled as she headed toward Anabelle's room. Running water in the kitchen told Greg where Mycroft was: up to his elbows in soapy dishwater, humming the Toreador aria from Carmen.

Greg tiptoed up behind Mycroft, who'd begun conducting his invisible orchestra with the wand sponge. He slid his hands around Mycroft's waist and kissed the side of his neck.

Mycroft leaned into the kiss, and mmmmmm'd. “S’nice," he purred, rubbing his cheek against Greg's.

“Leave the dishes," Greg whispered. He kissed Mycroft’s neck, then nipped where it met the shoulder. Mycroft melted into him as he nipped again to leave a small bruise. He stroked it with his tongue. Another nip. Another flick of the tongue.

“I'm almost finished," Mycroft said as he tried to concentrate on the final few forks and serving spoons. "And what about the girls. Will this be awkward—I mean will they—“

“Hear us? Know what's happening? Yeah, probably,” Greg acknowledged. “It will be fine. Besides. Getting caught is a rite of parenthood passage. Eventually it happens to every couple.”

Mycroft released the sudsy water, then rinsed and dried his hands. As he turned to Gregory, who was still standing behind him, it was deliciously clear for both how fine it would be.

Mycroft twisted his hips, stroking his pelvis against Greg's. He hmm’d his approval. Leaning in, he grazed his lips over Gregory's, a small moan not much more than a whisper. His lips were so soft. So...more.

"Anabelle already knew," Greg whispered. He closed his eyes and opened himself to Mycroft: the feel of his soft whiskers against Greg's own coarser day's-growth. The scent of the soy sauce around his mouth mingling with the remnants of the fragrance of the hotel’s floral soap. “She said she could tell from the way I look at you. Like you’re perfect.”

Mycroft slid his hand behind Greg’s neck, tangling his fingers in the blonde-gray hair. He kissed Greg's parted lips and took their opening as an invitation. Tongues. Lips. Warm heat and heavy breaths.

“Ew, gross!” Maggie’s voice cut in, as she entered the kitchen for a refill of her drink and to root through the pantry for snacks. “Also. Way to go Mr. G!” She shot him a thumbs up on her way out of the kitchen, her hands loaded with bags of chips. Greg laughed, partly at her comment and partly at Mycroft’s embarrassment.

“Told you,” Greg laughed. “Happens to everyone.”

“Get a room!” Anabelle hollered from up the hall. Clearly, Maggie had filled her in and the two were reduced to hysterics.

“Well,” Mycroft said, his voice thick at the suggestion. “Even they want us to get a room. Who’m I to argue?”

Greg kissed him in agreement and, taking Mycroft’s damp hand, he led him through the kitchen to the Master suite.

The Anabelle’s speakers blared _Fall Out Boy_ loud enough to drift into Greg’s bedroom. He was certain the volume was a gift—but for whom? The girls, so they wouldn’t hear or the men so they wouldn’t worry?

Greg closed the door.

Locked the door.

Rechecked that it was actually closed and locked.

No. More. Interruptions.

“Four days ago, on a plane to London, I was so hard from touching you, I almost came in my seat,” Greg said as he walked up to Mycroft. He touched the collar of Mycroft’s polo shirt. Slid a finger down the V made by the open buttons. “I swear I’ve spent the last four days so fucking ready. If there is a God, and I do believe in Him with all I am, we will get a chance to make love tonight. And to finish what we start.”

“Amen,” Mycroft said, eyes closed, exposing his neck to whatever Greg wanted to do.

“Turn on some music.” Greg pointed to his iPod sitting in the Bose speaker dock. “Whatever song it’s on, it’ll be better than Fall Out Boy.” Greg closed the blinds as Mycroft found the remote. They needed something slow and sensual, where their bodies would move on their own. “It’s probably Sinatra or Mel Tormé.”

_**WHAT WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT WHAT**._

Mycroft jumped and yelped.

How loud could these speakers go?! It registered on the Richter scale. Actually, his pounding heart probably registered, too.

Greg threw open the door and bellowed. “Anabelle Elizabeth Lestrade. Get down here. NOW.” Red faced, he couldn’t even look at Mycroft. One hand gripped the door; the other flexed open and closed. Open and closed.

The giggles arrived before the girls did. It was hard to look contrite and contain hysterics at the same time. Maggie and Anabelle held their sides in pain from laughter.

“Yes, Daddy?” She said, the song still playing at max volume. Her eyes were wide with innocence, and her voice sounded 12. His voice wouldn’t be that kind.

**_I’m gonna pop some tags. Only got twenty dollars in my pocket…_ **

“Did you do this?” Greg said, flailing his arm in the general direction of the speakers and Mycroft.

“Yes.” He barely heard her over the music. “You were teasing me about my music on Thursday before you took me to Mom’s. So I, you know, teased you back.” Batted eyelashes. Small voice. Trying so hard not to laugh.

_**I wear your granddad’s clothes. I look incredible.** _

The volume reduced to a third of what it was; low enough they could finally hear themselves.

“What. Was that. Song! It was RIDICULOUS.” Mycroft said with the remote in his hand and sang, “What What. What. What.”

They gave up. All of them. Not one could keep a straight face with Mycroft singing Macklemore.

“Get out of here,” Greg said as forcefully as he could with a smile. “Just go. And stay away from my music. I’m old. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Yeah. I shoulda thought of that,” Anabelle sassed on her way out, and he swatted her bum as she ran past him.

Door closed. Locked. Rechecked.

Finally.

After the plane. The cancelled hotel. The emergency child rescue. They were together. Alone. Mycroft, standing in his bedroom. Next to his bed. Looking at him. Looking into him.

His heart pounded, and he knew where all the blood in his body was right now. His mouth was dry, couldn’t even lick his lips. Excited and nervous. So fucking nervous.

God, he wanted.

He’d never even.

But God, it was all he wanted. Right. Now.

“I’m so sorry about Macklemore,” he managed to say. Staring. Dry mouth. “Um, if you want to find some better music, I’ll just…” he pointed to the window, the harsh yellow-white light from street lamp pooling on the bed.

Mycroft chose some early Frank Sinatra, songs where his voice sounded young and sensual, as Greg drew the blinds. He fussed with them, trying to think of something witty, classy, seductive to say. Energy thrummed around them, between them, almost overwhelming in its need.

Mycroft walked up behind Greg, resting his chin on his shoulder. “Four days ago, on a plane to London, I was so hard from you touching me, I almost came in my seat,” Mycroft said as pressed against Greg, his hard cock pushing against Greg’s ass. He slid his hands up Greg’s chest, stroking his nipples through the light cotton shirt. “I swear I’ve spent the last four days so ready. If there is a God, and I do believe in Him with all I am, we will get a chance to make love tonight. And to finish what we start.” Mycroft’s right hand trailed down Greg’s body, lazily stroking his erection straining at his fly.

He cupped Greg and pressed himself more firmly against Greg’s ass, to insure that his message was clear. He slid his hands under Greg’s shirt and in one move, pulled it over his head and tossed it onto the arm chair in the corner. His hands and mouth explored Greg’s shoulders, back, waist, chest. He craved this contact, wanted it more than anything in the past 20 years. He turned Greg so they were face to face. Mouth to mouth.

So close. Breathing the same air.

Mycroft brushed his lip against Greg’s but Greg was done with the light touches and torment. He wrapped his hand around the back of Mycroft’s neck and pulled him in for a hard smash of a kiss. If he couldn’t find the words, he’d let the kiss talk for him. It was sloppier than he’d wanted, knocking teeth and unable to align their noses, but it said, _let’s do this_.

 _Please. Let’s do this_.

Mycroft unbuckled Greg’s belt, and Greg held his breath.

He unzipped Greg’s fly, and Greg blew his breath out slowly, not wanting to do a single thing that would make him stop. He lost all will to do anything except be touched by Mycroft’s lips and fingers.

“Too. Many. Clothes,” Mycroft growled. “I need you. Naked. Now.”

Greg whimpered. Yes. Now. He grabbed the waist of his pants to pull them down, but Mycroft swatted his hands away. He would do this, each touch foreplay, making him fucking hotter. Harder. He slid his hands into the back of Greg’s waistband and down over his ass, well-muscled and curved from his after-school runs. Squeezed. Traced a finger along the cleft, a hint of what I want. What we can do.

Greg kicked the trousers away when they hit the floor and stood in only his underwear.

“Hmmmmmm, Boxer-briefs.” Mycroft stared, appreciating how they hugged the muscles in Greg’s bottom and thighs. Over his erection. “Delicious. But completely unnecessary.”

His hands slipped back over Greg’s bottom and drew the underwear down, careful that they didn’t catch on his cock. Greg pulled them over his feet and tossed the red boxer-briefs across the room on top of his trousers.

“Yes. Delicious,” Mycroft agreed with himself. He wanted to take Greg to the bed. To bed.

“You still have clothes on,” Greg said, shy and unsure for the first time.

Mycroft guided Greg’s hand to his buckle and Greg mewled, stroking Mycroft through his pants. The Polo shirt came off, and Greg took a moment to kiss the collar bone, so prominent; the freckles on his chest, the sparse ginger hair that trailed down, darker below Mycroft’s navel, at the button closure on his trousers.

Mycroft’s eyes were closed, his face flushed. Greg stole another kiss and dropped to his knees to unzip the fly. With the trousers gone, he pressed his mouth over the silk boxers and dragged it up and down the shaft —the feathery pressure and the slide on Mycroft’s brought him too close to the edge. He pulled Greg back up and smashed him into a kiss. “I don’t want to come this way,” Mycroft said through the kiss. “Not our first time. We’ve waited too long and that feels…if you keep doing that, I will come right here.”

Greg backed up to look at Mycroft. So beautiful. His pupils wide, the darkness almost covered his hazel eyes; his lips were red and swollen. They parted to catch their breath.

Mycroft slipped his boxers off and folded them in half, placing them on the bench at the foot of the bed. Greg stared, laughing at Mycroft’s precise movements.

“Don’t laugh,” Mycroft warned, his voice dark and commanding. “One day you’re going to be extremely happy that I am precise. It takes careful movements to hit a prostate with Every. Single. Thrust.” His voice lowered, and Greg didn’t know it was possible for Mycroft to sound so dirty.

He whimpered again, his brain not working. Anything he could say, he had to say with a kiss. And Mycroft answered him with a crushing kiss, by pressing Greg into the mattress, straddling him, knees on either side of Greg’s thighs. One roll of his hips, and Mycroft’s cock slid over Greg’s.

Greg’s noises, deep and loud were mostly hidden by the music from the two rooms. He wanted to be embarrassed; he’d never in his life been a screamer, but he had no control over anything.

“You can’t do that again,” Greg gasped. “I can’t—I won’t—be able to hold out.”

Mycroft stilled his hips, his cock resting against Greg’s heavy, swollen erection. “Want you so much.” Mycroft’s breath hitched at the raw truth of his own words.

Mycroft kissed him once, gently, and Greg felt the loss of him, until he realized that his lover moved down his body, kissing a trail. Flicking his nipples with pointed tongue (“I’ll be back for those,” Mycroft growled). Sucking a bruise on Greg’s sharp hip bone. Licking into the crease of his thigh, which smelled of arousal and sweat and Greg.

He couldn’t tease any longer. “Do you have any lubricant?” Mycroft could barely speak the words, his voice thick with desire. Greg pointed to a drawer in the nightstand, and Mycroft found it easily next to the box of condoms.

He needed to taste Greg before he used the lube. Swallow him down and watch him fall apart. He wet his lips and took Greg’s cock in as far as he could, burying his nose in the light brown curls. Mycroft’s tongue stroked the underside as he pulled up, suction hard, heavy, and a pop as his mouth pulled off. He wanted to see Greg’s face, his mouth, but opening his own eyes was too difficult.

Greg was incoherent. Over and over he chanted Mycroft’s name. _MycroftMycroftpleaseMycroft_. Loud. Too loud. The girls had to be able to hear—he shut that thought down. Didn’t care. What mattered was this. Them. Here. Now.

“Come here and kiss me. Want to taste you,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft up his body to bring their mouths together. Mycroft’s desperate moan opened his mouth for Greg’s tongue. He teased Mycroft’s with his own, flicking and sucking it.

That. Right there. Greg sucking Mycroft’s tongue and lip. Had to stop. Because. Because four days. Four. Gonna come now. No. No! Mycroft pulled away and reached down to grab his cock at the base, to breathe. Slow it down before it ended too quickly.

Mycroft flipped open the tube and drizzled a line of lube up Greg’s hot, thick penis. “Shhh,” Mycroft said. “I know it’s cold. ‘s okay.” He grabbed Greg’s hand, releasing its grip on the sheets, and wrapped it around both of them. Then he placed his hand atop Greg’s and stroked. Exquisite pleasure. Exquisite, perfect pleasure.

Their bodies rocked together, the friction. Exact. Right. They slid against each other, slick from the lube and the droplets of precome, pushing together through the hole made by their fists. Their slow, languid movements grew heated, moving faster, arching together. This is fucking unbelievable, Greg thought, knowing he would come soon and that would be okay. Mycroft’s moans mingled with Greg’s, until Mycroft came without warning, spilling over their fists. The pressure of his hips moving as he came, rolling, it was too much and exactly perfect. Greg’s orgasm rose up from deep inside, crashing over him, pulsing between their sweat-soaked bodies. Still intoning _MycroftMycroftMycroft_.

Mycroft held himself up on his flat palms, and when Greg’s breathing returned, he released his elbows and rolled onto the bed. They’d taken each other apart, stroke by stroke, and returned different men. Greg was surer now that the choice he’d made had been pure and right. From the street lamp’s light through a missing slat in the blinds, he watched Mycroft, on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes. His breath was ragged; his short hair pulled messy and wild from Greg’s fingers.

“Genius,” Greg mumbled. “You’re a fucking genius.”

Since Greg could barely move let alone get out of bed, Mycroft padded to the en suite bathroom and returned with a warm cloth to clean them both. Greg hmm’d and smiled at the gentle touch. Mycroft brought the face cloth back to the bathroom and when he returned to the bedroom, he stood awkwardly, not sure what to do.

“C’mere,” Greg patted the bed and held up the duvet. “Come back to bed. We have nowhere to be tomorrow. We can get some sleep and maybe, do that again?”

Mycroft slid under the sheets and rested his head on Greg's shoulder, drawing himself in as close as he could. Greg's chest hair tickled his nose, and he angled his head back which gave him a beautiful view.

A kiss. Gentle. Conversation. Easy. Tomorrow was Monday but they hadn't expected to come home until Wednesday and weren’t due back at work until next Monday. Maybe go to the beach. New Smyrna. Drive on the packed sand next to the ocean.

Or stay here. In bed.

The time between Mycroft's answers grew longer, his breaths deeper and more even. Greg didn't mind. They'd gotten so little sleep the night before. Then the jetlag. He watched Mycroft sleep. He looked carefree. Younger.

Greg imagined meeting Mycroft 20 years ago. Accent thick, lacking the southern drawl that had crept into some pronunciations. Did he have more hair then? Was it lighter? Was he as sure of himself then? Greg wasn't. He remember 1994 clearly. Awkward. Gawky. Finishing up college. Trying to pull girls without success.

He could imagine meeting Mycroft, newly in America. Fresh from law school. Maybe they'd have met at a book store. By the biographies. In the past few months they'd torn apart US and British military history. Maybe there. Struck up a conversation. A cup of coffee.

Yes. I would have liked that man. More damaged. Hurting. But glorious and beautiful. Greg drifted off with Mycroft still snuggled in, an occasional tiny snore breaking the silence.

_No matter where or when in time, they would find each other._

_He dreamt of them, two young soldiers (boys still) in the Great War cowering in a trench. The only two still alive. One American, one British, both soaked. Shivering from wet clothes. Shoes shredded with rags shoved into the holes trying to protect their toes. The shelling was close, so close to them. These boys whom fate threw together. Huddled for safety and warmth. Telling their deepest secrets in case one didn't make it._

_"I want to be with a man," the American soldier confessed, his eyes down not looking at his confidante. “I know it’s wrong. My priest says I’m sick.” A sob escaped beyond the words. A moment with no answer. A moment of silence. A moment of decision. The Englishman’s hand reached for the American’s, unsure and unsteady. Fingers interlaced._

_"It’s brave of you to admit,” Mycroft answered, as quietly as he could, given the shelling. He looked at Gregory, tears streaking his dirty face, blurring the clean and filth. “Love is precious and should be given and taken whenever it is possible. I know that now.” He wanted to wipe the tears, to comfort Gregory, but their reality was ugly, and they would likely never leave this trench. Dying without yet living._

_At that moment he needed to believe in something beyond death, bigger than death. To affirm that living was possible. He still held Gregory’s hand, his thumb mindlessly stroking the other man’s. Time slowed down. The screams of the shells faded. The violent light of explosions in the depth of night paled. And Mycroft kissed Greg. Soft and sweet in midst of this harsh barbarity. He pulled back and searched the other man’s face. Greg shook off Mycroft’s hand and wrapped it around his neck, crushing their lips together. He took the kiss, grabbed it, stole it, ripped it away from Mycroft and owned it. He would fight death in the way he knew how, by living…_

“Good morning, love,” Mycroft said, moving his hand from Greg’s face. “I hated to wake you, but you were having a bad dream.”

Greg wiped his face with the back of his hand. Tears. He’d been crying in his dream; he didn’t realize it had transcended into reality. He rolled his head away from Mycroft to regain control of himself, but Mycroft slipped his hand into Greg’s. “I’m sorry it was so bad. Sometimes they’re more brutal than reality.”

He moved closer to Greg, to enfold him, to make him feel safe, to ward off the evil.

“We were soldiers. Dying. But we were together,” Greg smiled and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. He rolled onto his back and kissed Mycroft the way he had in the dream. Why was it so much easier to speak this way?

“I like together,” Mycroft said between kisses. “Together is one of my favorite things.”

Greg laughed. “I think that’s good, because it’s one of my favorite things, too.”

“Tell me some of your other favorite things,” Mycroft said, as he bit Greg’s shoulder. A gasp. A kiss to say, ‘I hope you liked it as much as I did.’

“Kittens, long walks in the rain…” tongue following the collar bone, down the center of the chest. A hum of acknowledgement to keep Greg speaking.

Greg arched against Mycroft’s mouth, needing more. More mouth. More teeth. More friction. More Mycroft.

“Rainbows. Unicorns. Glitter…”

“Uh huh…” Mycroft agreed, not listening, not in the least. He repositioned himself, his left thigh pressing against Greg’s cock, as he focused on nipples, hard and responsive.

Mycroft gently pinched the left with his fingers and the right with his teeth. Tongue. Pressing against Greg with his thigh.

Sensory overload. Almost. Too many feelings. Tickle. Pain. Pleasure. Overwhelming pleasure. Greg pushed up against the thigh, and got his mouth on whatever part of Mycroft he could. Shoulder. Bite. Kiss.

“C’mere,” He pulled Mycroft up to his mouth, opening his eyes as he did. God, Mycroft was so fucking beautiful. Freckles on his cheeks and nose. The ginger whiskers. His lips so swollen. Kiss him now. More. Forever.

Greg whispered, “I want you so much.”

“You have me,” Mycroft rested his forehead against Greg’s, his eyes closed. When he opened them, looking into Greg’s, he said, “I love you, too.” Please don’t hurt me.

Greg kissed him until they were breathless. I would never hurt you. I love you.

He pressed Mycroft onto his back, and Greg smiled wickedly. “I hate leaving things unfinished—“

His hand grasped Mycroft’s thick cock. “Really, you know, I wasn’t kidding when I said Loch Ness Monster.” Mycroft laughed until Greg swirled his tongue around the head and then pressed his lips into a small O, forcing it into his mouth.

A moan replaced the giggles. And another.

Greg’s head bobbed as he tried to take as much of the cock in as he could. Mycroft held still, as still as he was able, working against his desire to fuck Greg’s mouth.

Swirl. Twist. Stroke. “Greg. Greg stop.” Mycroft begged.

“Oh my God, did I do it wrong? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, you did it right, really right. I don’t want to come this way. Please. I want you to fuck me. Do you have—“

Greg shifted to the other side of the bed and reached into the drawer for a condom and lube. “This? Yeah, but I’m healthy; I just had myself tested.” He blushed at admitting how long he’d thought about this moment. He moved atop Mycroft, straddling him, moving so his cock stroked Mycroft’s. He found he liked—no, loved—seeing Mycroft fall apart like this.

“Me too,” Mycroft struggled to say, his brain no longer functioning fully. “Wanted to make love to you since forever.”

Greg rolled his hips forward, his cock stroking Mycroft’s. Small noises. Needy. Beautiful. He threw the unopened condom packet onto the floor, but flicked open the tube of lubrication.

Mycroft sat up to roll onto his hands and knees, but Greg stopped him. “I’ve never—er—done this before. Can we, you know, do it face to face? I really want to see you.”

Mycroft nodded and said, “I’ll show you,” but couldn’t say more as Greg drizzled a stripe of lube on his cock. He grabbed Mycroft’s erection in his fist and spread it evenly, twisting over the head each time.

More lube, this time on Greg.

“Finger me,” Mycroft begged, grabbing his cock at its base trying to hold off his orgasm.

Greg teased Mycroft’s hole with his slick finger, with small, lazy circles not quite dipping inside. Finally, not wanting to hurt him, Greg slid his middle finger in and Mycroft called out. Beautiful. Delicious. More. Make him do that again.

Mycroft explained and guided. Two fingers, three fingers. So fucking tight and hot.

“I—haven’t done this—in quite a while,” Mycroft said, alternately wincing and moaning at the stretch.

He draped his leg over Greg’s shoulder as Greg stroked his cock, precome mixing with the lube. He grabbed one of Mycroft’s ass cheeks and slowly pressed the blunt head of his cock in, pushing slowly through the tight muscle. Painful. Burning. Gorgeous.

“You won’t hurt me. I’m not glass. Fuck. Me.” Mycroft stared at him, his tone belying the love in his eyes.

“You’re so…fucking…tight…I love it. I love you.” Greg said as he pushed in and dragged out, focusing on restraint. Restraint.

Mycroft slid his hand between them and pulled, tugged, twisted at himself, arching as he moved closer, too close to stop, too there to want to.

“God, don’t…don’t…I can’t...” Mycroft’s cock jerked hot and wet between them.

The sheer fucking heat of watching Mycroft crash was more than Greg could withstand. The way his ass clenched Greg’s cock was too much.

No more restraint. He stuttered, thrusting until he couldn’t ignore the electricity in his spine, his belly, his cock. He shoved in as far as he could, grabbing Mycroft’s hips with his fingers to hold him in place. He came hard, harder than he could remember, trying to speak but only mewling.

Mycroft reached up to cup his face and brought them close to kiss. “I love you, Gregory.”

Greg mumbled something, barely enough energy to form sounds.

“Yes, I know you love me, too,” Mycroft smiled as he said it. It didn’t need saying.

Greg slipped out of Mycroft and lay down next to him with a deep sigh and a smile. A kiss. Another. Curling into him,

“Where are you going?” Greg asked, as Mycroft moved to get out of bed.

“If we fall asleep and don’t clean up first, you will be extremely unhappy,” Mycroft laughed as he padded to the bathroom.

“If we were wizards, we’d have a spell for his,” Greg called to Mycroft, who returned with a warm face cloth to wipe them down.

“If we were wizards, we’d have spells for a lot of things,” Mycroft agreed. “Such as feeding teenage girls who I believe you’ll find lurking outside the door, trying not to laugh.”

“Well. This is awkward,” Greg’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“We’ll practice another time honored rite of passage,” Mycroft said, cleaning them off. “Either lie to them or simply pretend it never happened.”

“I know you’re out there,” Greg bellowed, trying to keep the laugh out of his voice.

They heard Maggie say, “Busted!” then squeals and giggles, stomps of four feet running up the hallway.

“Now that they’re gone,” Greg said, rolling on his side to Mycroft, “Where were we?”

“Right about…here,” Mycroft answered, kissing Greg, his finger trailing down Greg’s chest and beneath the blanket.


	10. I Was Never Lookin' For a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fun week before Mom returns, and then all hell breaks loose. Greg sees now why his marriage failed; Jennifer wasn't the only one who screwed up, but he won't do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. Not gonna lie. I love this 'verse. May just plunk myself here for a bit and hang with these characters. XOOXOX thank you for all of your support and love!
> 
> HUGE thanks to two awesome Betas, 221btls and doctorsdaughter. You keep me right and show me what I didn't see *or didn't want to see*
> 
> Ed Sheeran's song, DON'T is the best. song. ever. odd vid, GREAT song. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iD2rhdFRehU
> 
> and woot woot! to Our Friends for their 7 emmys!

The week’s vacation passed too quickly for the three of them. They sunned on the beach in New Smyrna, where Mycroft refused to use sunscreen and turned the color of an over-ripe tomato. They devoted an entire day to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Greg’s ‘Accio Mycroft’ charm worked brilliantly, although he suspected it had less to do with the wand he’d purchased and more to do with the need for a kiss. Several days they drove to Mycroft’s to lie by the pool and have him cook for them in the outdoor kitchen.

Anabelle chose a guest room that looked out over the manicured back garden and swimming pool. She declared it ‘Brilliant!’ and by the third day she’d arranged pictures of her Dad and Mycroft and some of the 3 of them on the antique dresser. Mycroft suspected she’d soon rearrange the furniture. They gave Anabelle space to do what she wanted—go to bed late, sleep past noon, swim or play online. In turn, she gave them the space they needed, always sure to announce her presence in advance. Maggie made sure Anabelle remembered. No one needed to walk in on  _that_ again, Anabelle thought, shivering at the thought.

The only glitch in the peace came poolside, midweek.

“Dad, Mamaw said to answer your phone!” Sunbathing poolside, Anabelle lifted her head from the reclined chaise lounge chair. She’d claimed that baby the first day at Mycroft’s and neither man dared touch it. After she yelled her message, she didn’t bother to check if they’d heard her. She did what Mamaw said.

“Mamaw?” Mycroft repeated with a laugh.

“Florida. Born and raised,” Greg explained, which only made Mycroft cock an eyebrow. “I’m southern, okay? It’s a perfectly acceptable thing to call a grandmother.” His invented irritation fell away with a laugh. “Okay, it’s a ridiculous thing to call a grandmother, but  _she_  chose it,” he said as he dialed.

Within the first few minutes, Mycroft realized Greg’s conversation with his mother was serious and private, and he excused himself to refill their water tumblers. He dallied as long as possible, wiping down immaculate countertops; when he returned, Greg was tapping his phone on his thigh and staring out into the distance.

“Everything alright?” Mycroft asked guardedly, handing Greg the glass of ice water before he sat down at the teak table.

“Mmmhm.” Greg stared off over Mycroft’s shoulder. ‘Mom’s received an offer to buy the house. It’s been for sale on and off for several years.” He shrugged and brought himself back to the present.

“Will you counter offer?” Mycroft asked, tracing the top of the plastic glass with his forefinger.

“Nah. Truthfully, it needs too much work. It’s on borrowed time. New roof. New air conditioning. Even the appliances have gotta be close to 20 years old.” Another shrug. “They want to close as soon as possible. But ya know what? We’ll figure it out.” The day was too beautiful, pastel blue sky clear of clouds and the sun’s rays strong before noon, to waste worrying. “Let’s go swimming,” he said, beaming a bright smile. “I have an idea!”

He flipped off his t-shirt tossing it on his empty seat and took a running cannonball into the pool, making sure the splash would rock up onto Anabelle. She yelled at him with several colorful words and rolled over to face the sun.

Greg grabbed a pail that sat poolside and, once her eyes were closed again and she was relaxed, stealthily filled it to douse her. But before Greg could throw it, Mycroft called out to her. Anabelle jumped off the lounge holding her bathing suit top up with one hand and warning him with the other. The chilly pool water hit her belly but not her face.

“Oh, you’re goin’ down,” she yelled as she dove in. “Mr. Mycroft, you grab him, and I’ll dunk him.”

Mycroft jumped in after her, his swim shirt protecting his skin, still burned from the beach day. He grabbed Greg easily and held on to his shoulders, shouting encouragement to Anabelle, but when Greg kissed him on the lips, deeply and without embarrassment in front of her, Mycroft released him.

“Whut? Huh? Did someone say something?” Mycroft pretended to be dazed.

“Winner winner chicken dinner!” Greg crowed, shaking his fists in the air.

Anabelle rolled her eyes and swam away, her strong even strokes quickly putting distance between her and these hormone happy men. “Hashtag Get a room,” she said over her shoulder and pulled herself out of the pool to resume tanning.

After a week together, Greg and Anabelle decided it was time. They would introduce Mycroft to _Rose Tyler_ , starting with a binge watch of  _Doctor Who_ at Greg’s home. He suggested a proper English dinner and dragged Mycroft and Anabelle to the grocery store, heading straight for the frozen processed fish sticks.

"We are not eating  _that_  after we had the best fish and chips in the UK at Poppies!" Mycroft balked. " _I_  will cook." He took the shopping cart to the meat section grumbling to himself about Americans and their taste buds. 

Greg looked at a confused Anabelle and laughed. "Mission accomplished. I knew he'd never eat that!”

Mycroft FaceTimed Mummy from the vegetable section of the store for her recipe for his favorite childhood meal. Unused to Mycroft calling, Mummy made the most of the video chat, asking after Greg who then introduced her to Anabelle. “Gregory, she’s delightful. Anabelle, you’ll call me Grandmother.”

Mycroft never got the full recipe, unable to wrest his phone from Belle. She FaceTimed with Mummy as she walked through Publix. By the time she signed off, she and her new grandmother had plans for DisneyWorld in the spring. “She's coming to see Sherlock and John, too, whoever they are,” Anabelle said handing Mycroft’s phone back, with 9% battery life remaining.

Mycroft, cranky but happy, borrowed Gregory’s phone to find a recipe so he could buy the right ingredients. Ground beef. A bag of baking potatoes. Carrots. And peas. When they returned home, he banished them from the kitchen, but grumbled so loudly about being alone, they joined him to peel and dice potatoes. When that was finished, Anabelle and Greg set the kitchen table to stop Mycroft from complaining even further.

When the oven timer dinged, Mycroft removed the casserole: ground beef with Italian seasonings and carrots and onions, topped with whipped potatoes with cheddar cheese mixed in.

“Cottage pie was my favorite meal when I was a teenager,” Mycroft said proudly, as he placed the hot casserole pan on the trivet in the center of the red and white checkered tablecloth.

“Did you have to fight off the dinosaurs to eat it?” Anabelle snarked, eyeing her serving warily. What kind of food used mashed potatoes as a crust? She pulled it apart with her fork, inspected it, and deciding it probably wasn’t poisoned, took a bite.

She coughed. Gasped. Grabbed her throat. Slid sideways in her seat. Her audience applauded, Greg shouting “Encore.”

“Ok, it’s not bad,” she said and shoveled in another forkful.

Mycroft was beginning to think that children were a pain in the behind when it came to new food.  First Honey’s son Sean and now this.

Over dinner, Mycroft and Greg explained who Sherlock and John were: the events of JAMMS the past semester, how her dad and Mycroft met. The wedding. The mess the trip was, even though it was perfect. 

"I'm so sorry y'all. I was the last straw," Anabelle apologized as she picked up their empty plates and rinsed them in the kitchen sink. 

"No. Not you. You didn't do anything," Mycroft reassured her, taking Greg’s hand in his and stroking his thumb over Greg’s.

Greg tilted his head closer to Mycroft’s and stage-whispered, "but her mother is a different story."

"Oh. My. God. Wait til mom hears about Mr. Mycroft. She's gonna freak." Anabelle stood, hands gripping the half-full casserole pan, and looked from her dad to Mycroft and back again. 

"Anabelle. _Do not_ discuss this with your mother,” Greg told her. Looking in his face, she knew she was right. It would be **_bad_**.  He gripped Mycroft’s hand and said, “I’ll tell her tomorrow and what happens is between us as adults. Please.”  

“Whatever. I wasn't gonna say anything. I’m just glad it's not me who's gotta tell her." She left the kitchen abruptly, angry over being scolded like a child, and cued up the first episode. 

Mycroft rubbed Greg’s back. They knew Anabelle was right. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it had to be done.

The binge watch began easily, with the three of them on the couch, Greg wedged in between Anabelle and Mycroft. His job was twofold: first, to keep Anabelle from spouting too much trivia and quoting too many lines, and then to keep Mycroft involved in the show.

Mycroft made it to episode 4 before he gave up. When the Slitheen took over the bodies of every major British politician, Mycroft blanched and said, “I’m too tired to focus.” He said good night and winked at Greg as he dropped a small kiss on the top of Anabelle’s head.

“Good night Mr. M,” Anabelle said. “Dad will be there in a few when this episode is over.” She didn’t take her eyes off the TV as she said it. “And do you think you two could keep it down tonigh? My poor ears.”

She dissolved into giggles and covered her head to block the pillows Dad and Mycroft threw.

“Belle, what am I going to do with you?” Greg shook his head, not sure whether to be mortified or just proud of her sass.

“Just remember young lady,” Mycroft said, with an attempt to be stern. “One day, your father and I will be having this discussion with you.”

“Ewwwwwwww,” she said.

“Lalalalaaa,” Greg shoved his fingers in his ears, his favorite method of avoidance. “Not having this conversation. Not having it.”

Mycroft kissed Greg, a small brush of lips, and left for the bedroom.

“You are too much, missy. Nothing happens in there.” Greg lied to her easily, not a twitch or raised eyebrow as a tell.

“That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?” Anabelle laughed, still watching the bulbous aliens take over the government. “Love you, Daddy. Go to bed.”

Greg bent over to kiss her cheek, and she hugged him. “I’m glad you’re so happy Daddy. I like seeing you like this.”

He smiled and joined Mycroft in bed. 

\---

Like his brother, Mycroft required little sleep. Days were too short, and it was ridiculous to waste precious hours sleeping. Most nights this week, after Greg drifted off, Mycroft left the bedroom to work either in his study or in Greg’s kitchen. Some nights he stayed in his robe; other nights he re-dressed in the day’s clothes. Today he stumbled out in his sleep clothes for a cup of coffee before starting the day.

6 am and the TARDIS was still flying on the television. Mycroft tucked his head into the family room and smiled at Anabelle curled up on the couch. Must have fallen asleep during the marathon, poor thing.

“I can hear you thinking,” Anabelle mumbled. “Come in and sit down.”

“Still in my night clothes,” Mycroft said, “and I need coffee.”

“I’m in mine, too. Don’t worry about your pajamas. We’re coming to the best part!” She sat up at one end of the couch when he came back in with a _Rock with JAMMS_ mug.

He sat primly on the other end of the couch. This was his first time around Anabelle without Greg as a buffer. He had no idea what to say, so he focused instead on the show.

“That’s the woman who was a green monster last night!” Mycroft said, pointing to the television as Margaret the Slitheen tried to take Rose Tyler hostage.

Anabelle tossed the other edge of the oversized fleece blanket toward Mycroft’s feet, now curled up under him on the couch. She decided against explaining. “Just watch,” she said, burrowing her legs further under the fleece.

He rolled his eyes and watched the heart of the TARDIS turn the woman into an egg. He scoffed and threw the edge of the blanket back. He had work to do.

“Wait. These last two episodes are the best,” Anabelle said, trying to get him to stay. “I’ll answer all of your questions, I promise!”

He didn’t usually connect with children; the worst days at work were when he had to try to make sense of some student’s actions. But Anabelle wasdifferent. She was interesting and often entertaining, if he were honest. With a dramatic sigh, he sat back down on the battered couch, pulled the blanket roughly—enough to pull it from her legs—laughed at her exasperation, and snuggled down.

Within minutes he was caught up in the Doctor’s struggle to eradicate the Daleks.

“Do. Not. Blaspheme! Do. Not. Blaspheme.” Mycroft copied the Daleks.

“You’re gonna wake up Dad,” Anabelle shushed him. He was ridiculous. How was he even the same guy who wore 3 piece suits and stayed up too late working in his study?

“Do. Not. Wake. Dad!” Mycroft said. “But. It’s. 9. A. M.”

“Let sleeping dads lie,” she said wisely.

They watched the doctor regenerate and Rose Tyler’s heart break until the new doctor said, “Did you miss me?”

Anabelle swooned at David Tennant’s doctor. Mycroft had to admit she was right. He was extremely handsome.

When Mycroft decided he needed another coffee to bolster him for more television, Anabelle jumped up and whispered in his ear, “Six words. Just six. Don’t. You. Think. She. Looks. Tired.” At 5’7, she whispered into his shoulder, not quite reaching his ear.

He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I think you need a doctor,” he said as melodramatically as he could. He closed his eyes and puckered up, making kissy noises—standing an arm’s length away

“Who. The. Fuck. Are. You.” 

Jennifer stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the doorknob and one holding her keys. In a glance she took in the room: 16 year old girl in pajamas. Fucking creepy-ass old man in  _his_ pajamas. Holding on to each other.

Mycroft turned immediately to the voice, dropping his hold on Anabelle. Statuesque. Blonde. Blue eyes. Jennifer.

“I said, who the _fuck_ are you, and what are you doing here?” her voice was low and sharp. Dangerous. She knew exactly what this was. Once again, her fucking ex-husband was too busy to have any idea what the hell was going on in his own goddamn house. No linens on the couch. So where did this guy sleep? His daughter was fucking the creep right under Gregory’s useless nose. 

“Mom!” Anabelle said, missing the danger in her mother’s voice. “I’m glad you’re home. This is Mycroft.”

 _Oh, this is great,_ Jennifer thought. Introduce me like it’s no deal. But Anabelle was mistaken.

“Anabelle. Elizabeth. Lestrade. Why the hell is this man in the living room with you at 9:30 in the morning? In pajamas. Answer me. **_Now.”_** Jennifer’s face was flushed with anger, and God help gramps if he tried to touch her daughter; she would punch the shit out of him. Kick him, maybe even pepper spray him, she thought, reaching into her purse. 

Anabelle looked around trying to find the answer somewhere in the room. “I guess he couldn’t sleep. We were watching  _Doctor Who_ \--“ she pointed toward the television.

“Mrs. Lestrade—“ Mycroft began, but Jennifer had no intention of letting this creep talk.

“First off, it’s Ms. Markham,” she cut this asshole off at the knees. Didn’t even know her name. “This man is at least 40 years older than you, Anabelle Elizabeth. How could your father even allow this?” Come to think of it, maybe she would pepper spray Greg. He would _so_ friggin’ deserve it. 

“Ewwww, do you think I’m sleeping with _him_?!” Anabelle was caught between laughing and incredulity. “Oh. My.  ** _GOD,_**  Mom. No. Just—No.”

Jennifer read the horror on her daughter’s face and took it for the truth. So, not a pedophile.

The man cleared his throat, and Anabelle turned to him, drop jawed. “Um, no offense, Mr. Mycroft,” she apologized, not wanting to reach out and touch him for fear of what her mom would do.

“Oh, certainly none taken,” Mycroft said drily, eyebrow raised, but still wary of the mother bear.

Jennifer closed her eyes, and slowed her breathing. She needed to approach this differently because obviously, _this_ wasn’t working. An hour ago, she left the cruise ship well-rested and stress free. Now it was all undone. Her shoulders were so tight, the tension pulling on them, running up her neck. And yeah, right on cue was the headache she always got when she tried to make sense of Greg.

“Anabelle, please tell me what is going on? Who is this man and why is he here?”

“He’s here because I invited him to stay.”

Greg stood across the room from Jennifer, drawing her attention away from Anabelle and Mycroft. He’d thrown on a pair of gym shorts when he heard the hysteria; a pissed-off Jennifer could wake the dead.

“A friend of _yours_?” Jennifer focused on her foolish ex-husband. “You’re so—stupid.” Instead of yelling, she sighed and shook her head in resignation. He _never_ thought things through. “What if he tried something—“

Greg put his hand out to stop her. “I know he didn’t try anything because—he’s with me.” He stared into her face, daring her. Daring her to say something. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jennifer asked. God, now she was lost. Why could he never just explain something without talking in circles?

Greg could almost see the wheels turning in his ex-wife’s head. She didn’t deserve an explanation, but it would be easier if he laid it out.

“This is Jennifer Markham, my ex-wife,” he said to Mycroft with a look that said,  _see? I wasn’t exaggerating. She is horrible._

Then he turned to Jennifer. “This is Mycroft Holmes. I went to London with him for his brother’s wedding. We cut our vacation short to come home so Anabelle wouldn’t be alone. We’re—together.” After he said it, Greg stood tall, his shoulder’s back. No apology.

He watched the pieces fit one by one into place in Jennifer’s mind. She collapsed into the overstuffed armchair; he read the shock on her face, in her rigid posture.

“He’s your _boyfriend_?” she asked, her voice rising as she stared at him, trying to make sense of his words.

“Anabelle,” Mycroft said, taking the girl’s arm, “Your dad looks like he could use a coffee. Let’s go to the donut shop down the road and get him one?” They slipped out of the room to change their clothes and disappear, giving Greg and Jennifer privacy.

Jennifer sat in stunned silence, and Greg followed her lead until they heard the front door click closed.

She spoke first, deliberately, in the same voice she used to speak to her kindergarten students. “I’m trying very hard to understand this, Gregory,” she said to the man standing in front of her. “This man is your boyfriend?”

He bristled visibly at her tone. Rolling his head to stretch his neck, Greg said, “It’s a stupid word for 40 year old men, but yes. We’re together.” He watched and waited, looking for signs of what she would do next. 

She nodded. Once. Twice. Trying to absorb what he'd said. _My husband--ex-husband-- is gay? What. The. Actual. Fuck. What did we do that made this happen? What did **I** do? Is this why we fell apart? Did he fuck around when we were married? Oh my God, people are gonna find out. They'll blame me. **What did you do. How did you not know?** How  did I not know? _

"Ok you have questions," Greg began. But Jennifer rose from the chair and lunged, slapping him across his face, the palm of her hand connecting with his cheek. Greg lost his balance but threw out his arm to catch himself on the chair 

“Cocksucker,” she yelled pulling her hand back to slap him again. He grabbed her wrist, and she struggled to free herself. To hurt him like he'd hurt her. "When did this start? When did you decide you were a fag? Oh my god," her hand flew to her open mouth. "Is that why you never wanted to have sex? Because I didn’t have a cock? Because I wasn't a man?” Her accusations echoed through the house.  

Greg stood still, holding on to her wrist so she couldn’t slap him again. “Don’t,” he whispered his warning.   

“Don’t what? Don’t call you a faggot? But you are, right?” She pushed to get to him, to break his hold. 

“Stop it.” Greg grabbed her shoulders and held her as she struggled against him. If it weren't happening to him it would have been like something from a cartoon. “Just stop."

“Did she hear you fucking,” she shrieked, “or were you silent like with me? Does he have to do all the work and you just pretend? Like you did with everything in our marriage?" She laughed at him, intending to humiliate him. She pulled hard enough to break his grasp and planted her feet, ready to swing. 

With those words Greg realized the fundamental problem. Why the marriage failed completely. There was no basic human respect. She never once saw who Greg **_was_** , only who she **_wanted_** him to be. She hadn't then, and she still didn't. The more she pushed him to be bigger, better, faster, more, the more he backed away from her and them.  

“You,” Greg’s voice strained to remain calm. “You don’t get to say that to me. I was the best husband I could be, but you always wanted **_more_**   from me. A better job. A bigger salary. It never mattered to you that I was really happy when I was **_just_** a teacher. I had to be a counselor. Then a principal. Make more money. And I hate it. 

“And I’ve got news for you princess. Belittling someone, putting them down, it’s not really great for a sex life. Even when we were fucking you couldn’t resist critiquing me. The ** _only_** good thing that came out of those 15 years was Anabelle.”  Greg turned away from Jennifer to collect himself, slow his breathing, wait out the tears, to act instead of react.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for my life,” Greg said, voice quiet and calm but his stomach roiling. He picked up the fleece blanket from the floor and folded it. He turned away from her to place the folded blanket on the couch. When he turned back, he looked in her wild eyes. “I talked about this with Anabelle. She’s the most important thing to me this world. I’d never do anything to hurt her. But I’m not just a parent; I’m a person, too. I have the right to fall in love.”

He crumpled onto the couch, where just a few hours before, they’d all been so happy. He really, _really_ just wanted this to end. For her to shut up and go away. He wanted to keep the moral high ground and not throw in her face that _she_ chose to leave their daughter alone in favor of going on a cruise.  _Not every thought needs a voice_ ,  _Greg_ , he told himself.

“People are going to talk,” Jennifer said, now brusque and dismissive, thinking she was taking charge. Greg watched her brush invisible wrinkles out of her skirt and blouse. She pulled a compact mirror out of her purse and checked her make-up, something he knew she only did when she was stalling for time. “And when they do, I will write it all down, and take it to a lawyer and sue you for full custody of Anabelle. I won’t have you doing your perverted sex things in front of her.” She closed the compact with a loud snap and replaced it in her purse as if to say,  _so there_.

As she turned to leave, Greg grabbed her elbow. “By the way, did I forget to mention Mycroft is the school board’s lawyer? So find yourself a good one, but do your research. Florida laws don’t take that into account with parenting. I could fuck the entire Orlando Magic basketball team at one time, but if I provide a good home for Anabelle, where she’s fed and clothed, you can’t do anything. Unless you want me to bring up the cruise.” So much for moral high ground, but man that felt good. He smiled for the first time that morning.

He released her elbow, and as she pulled open the door, he fired off his last words. “You are not welcome here uninvited. Give me the key or I will have the locks changed this afternoon. Either way, it’s the last time you come in without permission.”

She reached into her purse, then changed her mind. “Bring Anabelle to my house by 6 tonight,” and she slammed the door on the way out. Let him change the fucking locks. Pay the money. For spite, she opened her car window and threw the key down the water run-off drain as she drove off.

Before she even stormed out, Greg searched on his phone for a locksmith who worked on Sundays and made an appointment for that afternoon. When he heard the front door open, he put the phone down to greet Mycroft and Anabelle. 

“I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!” Anabelle called out in a cackling, high pitched voice. “We saw the Wicked Witch driving out, so we came home.”

“Anabelle--“ Greg warned, with no heat in his voice. The moral high ground sucked. “Don’t compare your mother to the Wicked Witch. It’s not kind to the witch.” He smiled wanly as she laughed. He thought he heard a snicker from Mycroft’s direction.

“Coffee, black, no sugar,” Mycroft said, handing over the tall paper cup. “It’s still hot.” The warning came after Greg took a swig and burned his lips. He cursed inventively and loudly, more because of his ex-wife than his scalded lips.

“Ohhh, I’m going to write  _that_  one down,” Anabelle joked about one cuss, fingers flying over the iMessage. “Now how do you spell _mothergodfu_ _—_ _“_

Greg grabbed for her phone but she ran off, laughing. When Greg didn’t even pretend to chase her, Mycroft said, “Come along, my friend. We’re going out where we can talk without teenaged ears.”  

Greg agreed without comment. While Greg finished dressing, Mycroft told Anabelle they would return later.

“Would you prefer to drive or shall I?” Mycroft asked, as he opened the passenger door. Greg slid in through the opened door and handed Mycroft the keys. Within minutes Mycroft pulled up to the park near Jesup Arts Middle.

“It is up to you whether we remain in the car or we walk the jogging trail. Both will provide an equal amount of privacy,” Mycroft offered. “I suggest we walk; the car will become stuffy rather quickly.”

Greg left the car, and Mycroft followed him across the crushed oyster shell walking path up to the children’s swings. Greg sat on the swing seat, hands wrapped around the thick, galvanized chain. His feet easily reached the ground, and he pushed himself back and let it swing forward. Mycroft sat on the swing next to him, and twisted his to face Greg.

Greg pushed back roughly and lifted his feet up to propel him forward, building up to an impressive arc. Not speaking. Just looking up to the tree tops and the sky.

Eventually, he dragged his feet through the sand to brake his motion. When he stopped, he twisted his chains so his swing faced Mycroft. Greg leaned forward and kissed Mycroft.

“I love you,” Greg said to all of the questions Mycroft didn’t ask. Mycroft’s face glowed; his smile was his response.

Hand in hand, they walked along the trail around the street hockey rink, the covered picnic tables, through JAMMS, until they wound up back at the swings. Greg told Mycroft everything. He hesitated to mention the truly ugly things Jennifer'd said, but he didn’t want secrets. No more mistakes.

“Ridiculous,” Mycroft smiled broadly. “After this past week, I can personally vouch for your sexual performance and volume, both of which are--” He didn’t finish his sentence because Greg pulled him into a kiss, right there in the parking lot. Deep and full, the kiss spoke of love and passion, respect and acceptance, more than enough and never enough.

“If you like,” Mycroft said, swaying gently with his eyes closed missing the touch of Greg’s lips, “I can enumerate the specific ways in which she was wrong.”

“Yes. Yes, that sounds—yes. When we get home.” Greg nudged Mycroft toward the car, to get them home.

 ** _WHAT WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT WHAT_** blared out Anabelle’s open bedroom window when they pulled into the driveway. Mycroft shuddered. “I will never forget that song. To the day I die I will remember being scared witless,” he said, his face pale as he walked around the car to Greg.

“I’ll never forget that song either, but for a completely different reason.” Greg smiled, his face alight with wonderful, impossible love.

The music was deafening inside the foyer. Greg fussed at Anabelle and Maggie for the volume; the girls, who sat side by side on Belle’s bed, were so focused on their laptops and singing that they never heard him. Greg walked into the room unnoticed until he turned down the volume on the iPod speakers.

“Hello Maggie. I’d invite you for dinner, but I have to return Belle to her mama by 6 or she may be turned into a flying monkey,” Greg said, as he walked out of the room. He felt good, so good now. Jennifer had no more control over him.

“I poured us coffee; it’s on the kitchen table,” Mycroft said, walking past Greg at the kitchen doorway and heading toward Belle’s room. “I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he had both Anabelle and Maggie in tow.

“I’d like to speak to you two about something very serious,” Mycroft said to Greg and Anabelle, as he pulled out a kitchen chair for her and one for Maggie. “As Belle’s best friend, this affects you too, Maggie.” She beamed, and rested her chin on her interlaced fingers.

“Am I in trouble?” Anabelle said, looking from her Dad to Mycroft and back. “Cause, I didn’t do it, and it wasn’t my fault. It was Maggie!" She smiled and batted her eyes. Any trick in the book. Maggie backhanded her in the gut and denied everything.

Mycroft patted her hand and said, “I’m a lawyer, Belle. I’ll find out sooner or later. Plead the 5th.”

He cleared his throat and began before Belle could interrupt again. “Greg, you and Anabelle will need to move. I know a nice place. Large enough for you both to have your own space. And a guest room for friends.”

Greg stopped doodling on the napkin, looking up to listen. Space was good, but location was paramount.

Anabelle bit her lips, staring at Mycroft. She knew what he was going to say and it was good. Really good. She and Maggie held hands under the table and made tiny squee noises.

“Is it close to school?” Greg asked, wondering about rent and what he could swing on his salary.

Mycroft nodded. “An easy drive, and zoned for the high school so Belle wouldn’t have to switch.”  Louder squee noises.

“Excellent!” Greg said, writing down the details as Mycroft explained them. Anabelle not needing to switch schools was a definite plus. “Do you know what the rent is? Is the owner a client of yours?” Must be a reputable person, Greg thought, if Mycroft is their lawyer.

“The rent is reasonable, although there are some strings attached. You’ll need to do some of the cooking and cleaning.”

“I’m lost,” Greg said, tilting his head. “Of course I have to cook and clean.”

“Dad!” Belle’s said impatiently. “It’s Mycroft’s house. He’s asking you to move in. Jesus!” She scraped her chair backward, away from the table. Maggie followed, and they left the room mumbling.  _“I ship it, but what the fuck!” and “I know he’s your dad, but he’s seriously clueless.”_

A deep breath, and Mycroft said, “Greg, I’m wondering if you would like to move in with me. Anabelle already has a bedroom that she’s made her own this week, and you could share my study or we could convert an extra bedroom for your own.”

His voice trailed off. He was so afraid Greg would laugh at him or worse, say no. He couldn’t even look up. And the lengthening silence wasn’t helping.

When he got the nerve to look at Greg, he saw why there had been no response. On the napkin, along with 3-dimensional squares and smiley faces was a long string of numbers that Greg was adding.

“I don’t know Mycroft. I don’t think I can afford to share the rent. It’s probably more than I’m paying now.” Greg chewed the end of the pen, thinking through the numbers, still not _hearing_ what Mycroft actually asked.

“Gregory, please. Put the pen down and look at me.” Mycroft took Greg’s hand and squeezed it. Not looking at the paper, or the pen, or the table. Looking at each other. “There is no rent because there is no mortgage. It’s paid off. There are bills, and we can share them, as well as the food and the cleaning responsibilities. It’s organic. It will change as we need it to.”

Greg’s smile grew slowly, until it lit his face. Yes.  _This_  he could do.

“You’ve said that you’re not looking for another mistake. I’ve spent the last 20 years mourning someone who died, but this past week I realize that I want to celebrate the living. And being alive. And I want to do that  _with you_. And with Anabelle. If you would agree to live with me, we can celebrate together.

“And it won’t always be easy, but it will never be a mistake. Actually, that sounded a lot less sappy in my head,” Mycroft said, cringing. Even with that egregiously smarmy sentence, he thought it was the best closing argument he’d ever made. He looked at Greg, for the jury’s decision.

“I pay my fair share, and I cook an equal number of meals,” Greg answered, grinning like a child on Christmas morning, presented with the largest gift under the tree and knowing it would be exactly what he’d wanted.

“Oh, God no. Not an equal number. You’re a dreadful cook,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and let his words sink in as he sipped his coffee. “But you can clean up.”

Greg laughed, not afraid of anything anymore. He could do this. They could do this.

“Mycroft Holmes, do you take me as your lawfully rented housemate?” 

“Yes, Gregory Lestrade. I do.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna work on letswritesherlock.tumblr.com's bingo next! Join me--IDK what it will be, but it won't be boring!


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